


The Sharp Edge of Memory (formerly known as Persuasion)

by titania522



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Comfort, Drama, Gen, Mockingjay, Persuasion - Freeform, Romance, end of catching fire, everlark, everlark fanfiction, mockingjay rewrite, titania522
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:31:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titania522/pseuds/titania522
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even if by some miracle I did survive and he did not - if I did not follow him to the grave from desperation soon after - I would live my entire life trying to solve the puzzle of how to get him out." What would have happened on the beach during the Quarter Quell if Finnick had not interrupted them? *2013 EVERLARK SMUT AWARDS NOMINEE!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peeta's Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction is actually a consequence of a discussion mellarksloaves was having on her tumbr blog, in which she discusses what might have happened if Peeta and Katniss had been able to go further on the beach. What could have been the possible consequences? As a result, I decided to write a one-shot exploring this possibility. This is something she was planning on doing and, no doubt, because of the caliber of her writing, it will be a far better product than mine but this is the result of that “eavesdropping.” Many thanks to her for allowing me to capitalize on this idea.
> 
> Disclaimer: Italics are direct quotes from the novel Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. I do not own any of the characters of this or any other book from her wonderful trilogy.

He’d put together that locket, at what expense both personal and material, I could only imagine, for the sole purpose of persuading me to let him die.  His intention had been to entrap me with the faces I loved, had devoted my life to protect.  And it did move me but not in the way he intended.  My sudden irrational desire was indeed to live, but not at his expense.  I suddenly wanted to know how many shades of gold his lashes could reflect, the color of his mussed hair at 30 or 40.  How different would the meadow look to me if I walked through it with him? What would the cheese buns taste like if we made them together? 

But this was not mine to ask.  Snow would see to it that if one of us had to leave the arena, it would not be me.  Even if by some miracle I did survive and he did not - if I did not follow him to the grave from desperation soon after - I would live my entire life trying to solve the puzzle of how to get him out.  I would be more drunk on grief than Haymitch, more ice than Johanna.

_“No one really needs me,” he says, and there’s no self pity in his voice.  It’s true his family doesn’t need him.  They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends.  But they will get on.  Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on.  I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies.  Me._

_“I do,” I say.  “I need you.”  He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that’s no good, no good at all, because he’ll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I’ll just get confused.  So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss._

_I feel that thing again.  The thing I only felt once before.  In the cave last year, when I was trying to get Haymitch to send us food.  I kissed Peeta about a thousand times during those Games and after.  But there was only one kiss that made me feel something stir deep inside.  Only one that made me want more.  But my head wound started bleeding and he made me lie down._

_This time, there is nothing but us to interrupt us.  And after a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking.  The sensation inside me grows warmer and warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being.  Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater.  I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind._

What is left of my suit is not enough to contain the heat that comes off of my skin.  I wrap myself around him, straddling his waist, tugging his head back to deepen the kiss in that incontrovertible way that left no doubt what I wanted from him.  I could almost feel the collective shudder of all of Panem as they watch me unravel, having lost all concern for the existence of anyone outside of the both of us.  My participation in this race of beings had ended the moment I entered the tube that shunt me into this watery arena. So had also ended my obligation to decorum or consideration for the masses that bet and took pleasure from my suffering, or who wept and raged against it. There had been couplings in the games before – furious fumblings under blankets, between bushes or simply up against a tree.  Many were voluntary but some had been acts of force, an effort to dominate at least one thing in a world where no one had true control.  But this was not the coupling of desperation in an attempt to squeeze some last cheap thrill out of life before it was ripped away.  This was surely much more painful than pleasurable to watch.  In our arms was a tunnel that began to close, at the end of which was a full epic life that was being mourned before it was lived.  This was a farewell to things unseen, the snuffing out of a light that I could imagine only the most hardened of hearts would be able to sit through without an aching remorse.

I grip him tighter to me as he runs his hands up my sides, gently pushing me back.   His eyes are bright as he speaks.

“Katniss, what are you doing?” He said this which such tenderness, running his hand over my cheek as if I were an errant child.  I shook my head – I did not want him to talk me out of anything – not the locket, not this.  I was never good with words so I ground my hips into him, giving him another deep kiss. 

“Katniss, the cameras…”  he gasped.

“Damn the world, Peeta.  Why should I care about them?” I said resolutely. 

He pulls back and considers me, nodding to himself as if making a decision and pulls my neck towards him, sliding his lips over my jaw and down my neck, greedily laving my skin until goose bumps spread to the ends of my fingers and toes.  I hold his head close as his tongue runs between my breasts, oblivious to the salty taste of the layer of sweat and sea that covers both of our bodies.  I feel his nose nudge the material of my tank top until his mouth encircles my small breasts, covering the nipples, partly to draw them out, partly from a remaining desire to hide that small intimacy from the ever present drone of the cameras in the trees and bushes.  He sucks long and hard until he has made the tips throb, the sensation flaring down to the deepest place in my abdomen.  My head falls back as I arch against his mouth, wordlessly begging him to continue. Carefully replacing the material, he does the same with the other one, smothering them in his hot lips, covering them at the same time with his hands.  I moan quietly into his hair, my fingers tangled in the blond sweaty curls that are matted to his neck.

I instinctively grind my hips into his hardened desire, the pressure through the flimsy material causing me to throb painfully, my gyrations not enough to relieve the incredible heat that has built up there.  I slide my hands down his back and pull back to kiss his neck and shoulders, showering them with wet, hot kisses.  He leans back on his hands as I run my mouth over his chest and bend awkwardly to pull up his shirt and to do to his nipples what he has done to mine.  He draws in his breath sharply, the muscles in his abdomen contracting as I let my teeth graze him gently.  He lifts one hand to my head to pull my lips closer, acknowledging the pleasure I am giving him. I am devouring him, fleetingly hoping that our families have shut their eyes to this and will forgive us this last wonton display of abandon.

He straightens up suddenly, looking at me with blue eyes gone slate with desire, a question hovering in them.  Always so considerate, even now giving me my exit if I want to take it.  But I am too far gone, the world having fallen away from me until there is nothing left but the hot sand beneath my knees and Peeta, rising up from it.  I simply nod as I slide my hand between us, reaching under the waist band to grasp his hardened cock in my fingers.  He pulls up to crush his mouth against mine, my lips protesting helplessly against the onslaught of his tongue ripping its way into my mouth.  He slides the material of my underwear to the side, using his arms as best he can to cover my hips as I free him from the confines of the suffocating material, lifting myself just enough to feel the tip against my wet, sodden center. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for his penetration as I sink down onto him, his thick tip pushing through my folds until he is partially engulfed, my gasp muffled into his shoulder.  I want to moan open mouthed into the night, damning the entire world with my shouts but I simply bring my lips to his ears and hiss his name “Peeta…” as I sheath myself over the entire length of him, the prickle of pain causing every muscle in my body to clench in spasms. His response is a guttural moan that threatens to bring the jungle down on our backs.

We sit there for a moment, panting, getting used to the feeling of him buried inside of me.  Here is when I begin to move, slowly at first as I stroke the pain and discomfort away, replacing it with the feeling of a coil that is tightening in my belly with each plunge and pull.  There is no way to hide this part so we simply stop trying.  Peeta takes my hips in both of his hands and begins to lift and lower me until we find a rhythm and I begin to ride him in earnest.  His face is turned upwards towards me and I bring my head  down to kiss him roughly, my hands using his shoulders as leverage, my nails digging painfully into his skin.  The muscles of my legs ache from the effort to sustain the increasing urgency of our movements.  He soon wraps his arms around me, burying his face into my chest as I feel the edge of the world hurtle towards me. Soon I will be in space, stepping off of a cliff into a place I’ve never been.  When everything I know falls away from me and my entire body begins to contract, I throw my head back, biting my lip hard until I almost taste blood to keep myself from shouting his name into the night.  The waves that crash over me threaten to drown me and I whimper with the pain of restraint.  His name tumbles out in hisses over and over as my orgasm takes me away with it, forcing tears out of my eyes.

As the contractions squeeze around him, I feel the burst of air from his lungs against my chest as he begins to mount his own summit, the sound of a wounded animal escaping his lips.  “Katniss, I can’t hold on anymore.” he snarls as his own release crashes over him, his cock spasming inside of me.  I begin to sob as I feel the heat spread inside of me, his fingers buried painfully into my back.  He tries to restrain an open-mouthed groan by putting his lips firmly onto my breast, sucking hard on it through the thin material.  His entire body shudders and then stills as he continues to hold me in place for several minutes.  I pull back to look at him, seeing that he too is crying.  I put my forehead to his and rest it there, trying to reconcile what has just happened with the reality of the world we live in – the games, the audiences, the shattered barriers between us.  We are crying openly now, no effort being made to quiet our sobs.  

“I love you Katniss, I’ve always loved you.  I’m sorry it had to be like this.” His voice shook and I know he is apologizing that our first time had to be here, on this beach, though the audience believes I am already with child.  I could not have known that this last desperate act had set off a full blown revolt in Districts 4, 6 and 9, sending explosions and citizen strikes throughout the ranks of peacekeepers, decimating further the Capitol’s hold on them.  District 12 would soon burn so little did I know my concern for my family’s dignity was a futile one, for they would soon be running for their lives. I could not have known how many Capitol citizens had indeed turned away, the rumblings of rage roiling the full bellies of pampered, powdered discontent.  We had done it again, without realizing it.  We had created a wind that further toppled the house of cards upon which Snow’s power had been built, a gale for which we would pay dearly.  But for now, it was only Peeta and I, lost in the utter solitude of our grief.

I’m choking on the words, finding them strange on my lips. “I...I love you, Peeta,” I said though my tears.  “Not just for the cameras.” I whisper before taking his mouth again and kissing him, an intense, burning kiss of longing and sadness, as if this too were a bird I was preparing to release.

When the lightning struck, waking Finnick, we were still locked deeply together, oblivious to the cracking electricity in the air.  His sharp cry pierces the air and I look over to see his fingers digging deep into the sand, no doubt waking from one of his own panoply of nightmares.

He offers to relieve one of us from the watch when he sees our faces, the tears, the way we are wrapped around each other, the disheveled flush of our skin.  “Or both of you.  I can watch alone.” 

Peeta won’t hear of it and, unwrapping ourselves painfully from one another, brings me to where the others sleep, placing the locket around my neck and resting his hand over my belly.   _“You’re going to make a great mother, you know,” he says this as he places one last lingering kiss on my lips and goes back to Finnick._   My body is achingly empty where he had once been.  I struggle to find sleep, finally losing myself in an exquisite dream that involves Peeta and a small blond boy running through the high grass of our meadow, leaving me breathless with joy. However, there was no way either of us could know that more than just a revolt was created that night – the seed was growing in me, the seed that would make our last great lie the most powerful truth of all. 


	2. Feint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a shout-out to SolasVioletta, who I begged to be ruthless with her editing. Her mastery of the language and pacing puts me to shame. You’ve earned your cookies! 
> 
> I always need to give props to my dear friend, TiffOdair, who reads my stories through and is always so unfailingly kind and encouraging, even when she is under the weather. I appreciate you so very much.
> 
> Disclaimer: Mature themes and situations.

**_  
_**

 

 

Disclaimer:  Mature themes and situations.

 

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.

What hours, O what black hours we have spent

This night!  What sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!

And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.

****

-From I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark by Gerard Manley Hopkins

****

I wake in the morning with a feeling of such utter happiness, I ache to return to the dream that occasioned it.  As I reach out for it, it begins to evaporate like the morning mist on the forest floor.  In that tenuous world between waking and sleep, I see a small, blond boy who would never know the bone-chilling fear of the Reaping, a beautiful boy who was truly safe.  He is the spitting image of Peeta, except his eyes are Seam grey and he looks to me with the air of expectancy as he raises his chubby arms, a word ready to fall from his lips…

And then I remember where I am and the vision dissipates, leaving me forlorn, missing something that I have never had.  The infernal humidity of the jungle makes me feel sticky and grimy but for once, I don’t mind it.  I touch my lips, tracing the path of his Peeta’s mouth over mine and recall every kiss I shared last night with him, a rush of heat on my already burning skin overwhelming me.  I run my hands down over my neck, imagining his dried sweat mingled with mine and revel in the fact that I still carry him in this way, like brands over my skin.  And my legs, still sticky from our sex…

I shake my head in an attempt to clear it.  I have an objective that will not be reached by fantasizing, no matter how tempting it is to remain in this cloud of content.  It is my last wish.

I have to keep Peeta alive, even if the world has to burn.  Even if I have to burn along with it.

I stand up and dust the sand off, moving quietly out from between the trees towards the beach.  I am just in time to see the parachute float onto the sand.  After watching Finnick count out the twenty-four rolls, my eyes sweep the group until they find Peeta.  He has been staring at me but when our eyes lock onto each other, neither of us can hold the gaze.  As if by mutual agreement, our eyes flit away from each other.

I shiver with a terrible urge to pull him behind one of those gnarled, insipid tree-trunks and kiss him indefinitely, but the boldness that had inspired my actions last night is gone in the harsh light of day and in its place is a brief flash of embarrassment.  I shake my head against it and consider our situation.  We can’t keep this alliance.  I can’t assure Peeta’s safety if I am unable to understand the motives of the other tributes – Beetee, Finnick and Johanna.  Why does everyone persist in protecting Peeta, at great cost to themselves?  I wish with all of my heart that I could speak to Haymitch right at that moment.  He would know.  Something in me told me he could clear a path out of my confusion and help me make the right decision.

Remember who the real enemy is.

After eating, I take Peeta’s hand, surprising him with the sudden contact.  “Come on.  I’ll teach you how to swim.”  We wade quietly out into the water, the skin of my fingertips prickling against his as I pull him along.  I concentrate on the task in front of me, my focus attempting to ooze into the sultry air of the arena and I sternly pull it back into place.  We are both nervous, the tension flitting between us like a drunken butterfly.  When the water is waist-deep, I quietly teach him how to float though, with the flotation belt, it is a moot point.  I feel Johanna’s eyes on me but after a bit, she goes off to nap. I run one arm under Peeta’s chest and the other rests lightly on his thigh, steadying him as he practices his strokes.  He plays this game of distraction along with me, gamely launching himself into the water and obeying my instructions. Imaginging how he will take the idea of leaving, I am caught off-guard when he suddenly appears and grabs me, pulling me into his arms.  He is kissing me now, a furious kiss at odds with the calm, measured Peeta I have known so far.  I sink into it – isn’t this what I had been thinking about also, before the need to act on his survival pushed all other desires out of my mind?  I was lost in it, in him.  I could almost imagine the arena going still as I wrapped my arms around his waist.  Where had my last thought gone?  I had something important to say to him…

He runs a finger down my spinal column, bringing his hand to rest on my hip which causes me to gasp against his mouth.  He is already rock hard under the water, his arousal pressing insistently against my belly.  This would not do…not at all.  Luckily for my slowly dissolving self-control, he pulls back to look at me.  “You really want to teach me how to swim?” he whispers.  I look up at him, the bright cornflower blue of his eyes rendering the sky just behind his head the flat color of puddle water in its contrast.  Those eyes confound me and I am only able to shake my head in response.  I pull his head towards my neck, partly to hide my lips from the other victors on the beach, partly to feel him just a bit closer to me.   While taking in the smell of sweat and sea salt on his skin, I whisper, “There’re only eight of us left.  We should take off.”

Peeta nods, the drag of his curls along my cheek threatening to scatter my thoughts to the four winds again as I desperately try to hold onto what I am saying.  Turning his lips into my ear, nuzzling the soft lobe there, he whispers again, “Fine but let’s wait till Brutus and Enobaria are dead.  Beetee is planning something.  Then we’ll go.”

My chest clenches up.  My instinct tells me to run away and not look back but I don’t want to fight off more than one group of victors.  There was also still Chaff to consider.

“Okay,” I tell him.  I’m not capable of much more as his warm breath against my shoulder sends me into a crisis.  He stops and turns towards me again.  “Are you sorry?”  he asks nervously.

“About what?” I ask, though I know what he is referring to.  He pulls back to look me squarely in the eye.

“About last night?” he clarifies, with such fear, it disarms me. No, not fear.  Don’t be afraid of me.  

“Never,”  I say ardently.  “I’ll never, ever regret it.”

“And the cameras?  The audience?”  he asks again.  It would be like him to consider all of the consequences.  He is not rash and impulsive like I am.

“What about them?  I hate the idea also but I don’t know how much longer either of us will be here.” How much longer I will be here, I self-corrected.  I stiffen at a thought.  “Maybe you’re sorry?” I hesitate.

“Uh, yeah, okay, how about no? I only care if you do.  I already regret not going right out in the rain that day I tossed the bread.  I regret not having the courage to speak to you all of these years.” I put my hand up to his cheek and shush him.  I don’t want him to relive any pain, not because of me.  “I don’t appreciate the audience but I don’t regret last night at all.  Unless it was just a moment.  Unless you didn’t mean it…” he let the sentence trail away.

I was not one for flowery words and endearments.  I love my sister above all other things in my life but I could count on one hand the times I told her I loved her.  But these were extraordinary circumstances – I’d have to fit a lifetime of affirmations in the space of hours, even minutes.  And he needed to hear it.  I suppose everyone needs to hear it.  I was always so sure of him but I know for a fact he could not say the same about me.  And while I revile the audience, I need them, if only as sponsors and this conversation must seem strange to them anyway.  Aren’t we married with child?

I can’t go resolving all of that now.  Instead, I put my hands on each side of his head.  “I meant every single last bit of it.  I’m not good at saying something, you know that.  But I love you.  I do.  Don’t ask me when or where because I can’t point to when it happened.  You just managed to get inside and root yourself there and now I’ll never pull you out again.” Which is why you have to live because my life is over either way.  

Peeta’s eyes went indigo with intensity.  “The odds just aren’t in our favor, after all,” he said with uncharacteristic fatalism.

I balked at this.  “Don’t go saying that, Peeta.  Stranger things have happened here.”

****

XXXXX

****

After our discussion, I figure out that rubbing sand along our skin will remove the scabs.  I call Finnick over and we scrub the dry patches off, rubbing cream over the new skin.  “Now you look pretty again.” I tease, laughing at our resident demi-god in patchwork skin covered in green goo.  He shakes his hair out like a wet puppy, splashing me with the drops that fly out while Peeta chuckles at our silliness. Beetee is already finalizing his plan to kill Brutus and Enobaria when Finnick wakes Johanna from her nap, foul-tempered as always, to join in the explanation of the wire and the lightning bolt. I have no idea how electricity works so I have to accept Beetee’s plan of electrifying the beach using a bolt of lightning conducted from the lightning tree along his magic wire to the water.   It will eliminate the seafood as our major food source, but if he is successful, the field of victors will be narrowed, and I’ll be able to escape with Peeta and keep him safe until he is crowned Victor of the Quarter Quell.

At about 9 in the morning, we trudge our way up to the lightning tree.  I stay close to Peeta, who grips his long knife with white knuckles, as I scan the jungle obsessively for Careers, my arrow at the ready.  I am bringing up the rear until we are at the tree and very close to the force field.  Apparently, I have managed to convince everyone that I can hear the force field with my super, bionic ear.  Everyone, that is, except for Beetee, who chooses not to call me out on my complete distortion of the rules of science.  “Force fields are nothing to play with,” is all Beetee says and I silently agree, having seen the terrible consequences first-hand.  After testing the distance from the tree to the field with a tree nut, I draw a line to indicate the safest distance from the field.

As Beetee works on his plan at the tree, I drag Peeta with me into the jungle to hunt.  Normally, his heavy tread would ruin my chances of catching anything but the tree rats are so unaccustomed to humans that they do not attempt to escape even with the noise that Peeta makes with his large, plodding steps.   He gathers nuts a short distance away and I manage a respectable haul despite my paranoia – I am constantly jumping at each sound in the area, awaiting an ambush.  I imagine the different ways my plan to save Peeta can fail and become increasingly agitated until I abruptly stop to take a deep breath of the thick jungle air.  I’m no use to anyone if I continue in this way.  I want to get into my hunting zone and stay there but his footsteps remind me of my objective.  I finally can’t take anymore and lead him quietly back to the beach where the company of Finnick and even Johanna soothe my nerves somewhat.   

Once I’ve cleaned and skewered the meat, we eat in silence, watching with some humor as Beetee comments incomprehensibly on aspects of his plan.  I am glad he is making sense to himself because what he mutters is sheer confusion for the rest of us.  The clicking of the 11 o’clock section of the arena  serves as a signal that we should return to the beach, as none of us are truly interested in knowing what the source of that sound might be.  We walk back and wait for midday. As the hour nears, I climb a tall tree to watch the explosive display of unnatural blue light as lightning strikes the tree, an incandescent flame that lights up the sky despite the brightness of the day.  

After reporting my sightings, we return to the ten o’clock beach.  There is nothing more to do so we are given the afternoon off as Beetee continues to work on his trap.  I’m momentarily disoriented.  The water is inviting but I sway on my feet, the heat dragging me into a mindless lethargy.  Despite this, I turn to Finnick and offer to take the first watch with Peeta.  Johanna crosses her arms and looks hard at me.  “What, don’t want to do watch duty with me?” she sneers.

“You mean if I have the choice of spending possibly three of the last hours of my life with either a bad-tempered psychopath or with my husband and the father of my child, could there possibly be any question about my choice?” I deadpan.  “Plus, he kisses better than you.”

Both Peeta and Johanna flush beet red while Finnick lets out a whoop of laughter.  “Well played, Katniss.  I’ve got nothing for that. Let’s go, Jo.  We’re off to take a nap.”  She gives him a meaningful look but he simply shakes his head almost imperceptibly at her, which causes all of the hairs on my back to stand on end though for which reason, I cannot immediately determine.  This is another confirmation that there might be some kind of understanding between them, which makes me even more determined to keep Peeta close to me.   I glance over at Peeta’s face but it is unreadable as he watches Finnick and Johanna go to their mats to lie down and rest.

Peeta and I pace the beach uneasily for several minutes, both of us lost in our respective thoughts.  After several rotations walking in this way, we finally sit down shoulder to shoulder, me facing the jungle while Peeta faces the water.  I cannot contain my thinking any longer and turn my head to whisper into Peeta’s ear.  

“Did you see the look Johanna gave Finnick when I insisted on taking the watch with you?”

Peeta nods, scanning the edges of the beach.  “I’m not sure if sticking around was such a good idea after all.”

I simply nod at this.  This hardly seems to be the moment to say I told you so. “Do you get the feeling they are trying to separate us?”  

Peeta sighs, revealing his uncertainty.  “I don’t know, Katniss, nothing squares here.  Why would they risk their lives to protect us and then try to separate us – for what?  What’s the end game?  They’ve had multiple opportunities to kill us. It doesn’t make sense.”  He looks up at the sky, as if the fluffy white clouds could give him the answer.  

“Maybe they only intend for the alliance to go so far, at least until we’ve outlived our usefulness.  Maybe they need us to make Beetee’s plan work and then, when the beach is fried…”

“So are we,” finishes Peeta.

I become morose at this.  I can live without Johanna, to be honest.  But I have an instinct about Finnick that is not consistent with this idea that he would make quick work of us when he gets the chance.  Despite my initial impression of him as shallow, vain and conceited, something in me cannot reject him.  Of all the people I’ve met during this dismal adventure, he is one of the few I could have called a friend in a better life.  There is something infinitely good in him and, like Peeta, these are the most dangerous people for me, for once they dig themselves into my heart, it is difficult for me to remain indifferent to them.

Peeta suddenly turns to me and grasps me just below the shoulders.  “Katniss, listen to me.  I’m starting to think that sticking around was more than just a bad idea but we are in it now and leaving could bring the whole lot of them down onto our backs.  We have to stick together, no matter what.”  There is a ferocity in his look that borders on desperation.  “I’m not watching them take you from me, no matter what the circumstances.  Do you understand?”

“Okay.” I say, his intensity making me quail. Peeta is an incredibly perceptive person.  If he is having the same doubts as me, there is no question that there is a basis for them.  This confirmation of my suspicions fills me with terror.  Up until that moment, I was unconsciously lulled into thinking that we were safe with them, that we could be less watchful when we were in the company of our allies.  I can’t have that luxury anymore.  

My fear must be written all over my face because Peeta pulls me towards him in a powerful embrace.  “Don’t be afraid.  I think we will know when we have to act.  They still need us for whatever Beetee is up to - of that I’m almost certain.  Until then, we need to relax, try to shore up our strength.”  I want to pull back, to protest that I am most certainly not afraid, thank you very much, but I have no desire to be the super woman with him.  I am scared – scared out of my mind - and being able to admit that without somehow being diminished is something that I can do with Peeta.  I know he won’t hold any of it against me.  

He sits with his legs crossed as if we were still in elementary school; as if he hadn't lost his leg – while I move to straddle him, holding him tightly against me.  I still have a full view of the jungle anyway and he is able to watch the beachfront so we simply hold onto each other in this way for the duration of our watch.

****

XXXXX

****

After Johanna and Finnick have taken their fill of sleep, I take Peeta’s hand and move towards one of the woven mats.  As we walk, I glance over at Finnick, who is looking at me again with an expression as if he is trying to solve a riddle.  I tilt my head towards him in acknowledgement, which he returns with a small chuckle and a shake of his head, looking down again at his compulsive weaving.  My erstwhile antagonist and savior, it is I who cannot solve the riddle of his behavior in this arena.  I come to the terrible conclusion that he, too, will have to die and a roaring grief threatens to choke me so I strangle the thought and grip Peeta’s hand tighter instead.  

Settling on the mat, Peeta wraps an arm around me and puts his chin on my head, pulling me against him.  I think again about last night and realize Peeta probably hasn’t slept since so I push him gently down and look at him for a moment, trying to memorize the details of his face.  He hadn’t added my picture to the locket but he probably should have because when I am done here, he will have to take it away with him instead. He endures my scrutiny for a bit, his thumb running the length of the veins on my small hand.  When he’s had enough, he pulls me down and gives me a kiss so gentle, it has the effect of melting together all the spaces between my joints.  The fire that started in my belly at the beach flares up again as if it had never been spent and we deepen our kiss, our tongues reaching out towards each other.  I’m aching everywhere now, inside and out and I want so much to give myself over to it, to burn with him.  

I can’t suppress the moan that escapes me as he pushes me onto my back and runs his hands along the length of me, my flimsy beach wear offering no protection against the intensity of his skin against mine.  I glance past Peeta’s shoulder and see Johanna snickering some 20 feet away but Finnick puts a hand on her and shakes his head, turning his back to us as they both face the water.  I turn my attention back to Peeta. It is perfect, the way we fit into each other; my hip seems made to be held in his hand, his knee resting snugly between my legs.  It is this perfection that renders everything so painfully absurd, I become breathless with the injustice of it all.  I run my hands up his back and pull him down towards me until I’ve lost the boundary between us.  We kiss this way for a long while until we reach the limit of our restraint and pull back, panting and unsatisfied.  We look at each other with everything and nothing to say.

“Sleep.” I whisper finally as I reposition myself, my head on his chest.  He makes to protest but I still his lips with my finger.  His exhaustion finally overtakes him and soon his even breathing and strong heartbeat sooth me to sleep.

****

XXXXX

****

When I next open my eyes, it is late afternoon.  Peeta is still lost in sleep and I lay on him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under my cheek for several minutes until I begin to feel restless.  Careful not to wake him, I get up and walk over to where Johanna and Finnick are on the beach.  Johanna looks at me with a bemused expression, barely containing her mirth.  I become instantly annoyed at her and spit out “Go ahead, just get it over with.”  This causes her to fairly cackle but instead of saying something crude and annoying, she just busies herself over a net.  It is Finnick who speaks instead.

“Seafood won’t be an option in a few hours.  We should make the most of it.   I’ll catch fish with the net while Johanna takes the guard. You want to dive for oysters?”

After the conversation I’ve just had with Peeta, I balk at going under the water but Johanna’s position on the beach is closer to ours than to his.  I consider also that if they are, indeed, preparing to turn on us, it will likely be after Brutus and Enobaria are eliminated.  I am almost positive they do not wish to have to fight us in addition to them also.  “Sure.”   I am actually looking forward to getting into the water and diving down to the bottom.  The water shimmers like a curtain of light.  Schools of fish dart around me as I use a small knife to pry the shiny, black creatures from the sides of rocks and coral.  It is another universe down here, so quiet and peaceful, it is as if the Games are just a persistent bad dream that manifests itself when I break the surface for air, and disappears when I dive to the bottom again.  I would have probably had a bigger haul of the slimy things but for my insistence on checking on Johanna and Peeta every other minute. Despite the incredible beauty of the water, I cannot forget the promise of treachery above the surface.

When I have caught all that I could, I resurface to see Peeta has awoken and taken the guard together with Johanna.  He is watching me intently, has been for who knows how long.  I know that watchful look, the one that tries to take in everything at once, the restless search for danger.  I know it well and see that he, too is obsessed with protecting me.   I offer a silent apology, for I would never deny him anything but I have to deny him this. You’re going home, whether you like it or not.

As I walk onto the beach, Peeta meets me to help me carry the rest of the oysters closer to the tree line.  Finnick has already gathered bowls of water from the trees to clean our haul.  

“You were gone,” he says as I settle down to clean the oysters.  It almost comes out as an accusation and considering our discussion, I would have probably felt the same way as him.  However, Finnick is right next to us so he is not able to reprimand me in the way I know he wants to.

“You were tired and needed your sleep.  I didn’t want to bother you,”  I say as I busy myself with the shells.

“I sleep better when you’re with me,” he says matter-of-factly, though I catch the subtext beneath his words.  I shouldn’t have left him.  Finnick cleans with a focus incongruous with the work he is engaged in.

I smile at this, attempting to disarm him.  “Me too.  I only ever slept right when I let you in my room during the Victory Tour and there was no one who could tell us not to sleep together.”  At this point, Finnick is clearly uncomfortable and scoots over to create more space for us.

“It’s what I miss the most.” I say sadly.

Peeta is disarmed by my confession. “Me too,” he says, almost to himself, before concentrating on his batch of oysters.  Finnick visibly relaxes, now that our intimate conversation has ended.  We work quietly until Peeta gives a surprised laugh.  “Take a look at this!”  He holds up an iridescent, pea-sized grey pearl.   He turns to Finnick. “Do you know that if you put enough pressure on coal, it turns to pearls?”

“No it doesn’t.” he says with some irritation.  I simply laugh as I remember Effie introducing us to the Capitol with this completely clueless statement.  And yet, out of our impoverished place in District 12, more than just a double victory grew up there.  I look at Peeta with the most intense longing I’ve ever felt.  I suddenly feel shy again as he hands the pearl over to me.  “Here.  For you.”

“Peeta…” I begin as I hold the pearl between my thumb and forefinger, the light glancing off of its surface like a tiny, grey sun in my hand.  If I had not been resolved until now to keep him alive, that resolve had turned to steel with this little gift, this last gift that he would give me.  I close my hand around it in a fist and when I look back up into Peeta’s eyes, I can see my own determination reflected in his.  

“Thank you,” I say in a cool voice that is not my own.

His smile fades from his face and he suddenly becomes very serious.  “The locket didn’t work, did it?”  I sense the way Finnick tenses at the changing tone of our conversation and I am shocked by Peeta’s indiscretion but Peeta does not even register Finnick’s presence any longer and now it is just the two of us again.  “Katniss?”

I simply look him in the eye, before answering, “It did.”

“But not in the way I wanted it to.”  He averts his eyes.  A look of pure misery overtakes his features and he concentrates on his oysters, refusing to look at me again.  He has suddenly become my greatest adversary, the one who, out of everyone here, would defy my purposes the most, actively work to make my plans fail.    I continue to work until all the seafood has been cleaned.

A parachute floats to the sand, containing 24 more rolls and a tub of red, spicy sauce.  Beetee finally joins us as we eat our fill, almost to bursting.  Peeta has let go some of his despondency and sits beside me, making sure that I have as much as I can eat.  It is an amazing meal – one of the best in my life.  Even the oysters are made more tolerable by the red sauce and I seize the impulse to feed pieces of fish and bread to Peeta, laughing as the sauce dribbles down his chin.  Johanna snorts indignantly at our show of affection but I shoot daggers at her with my eyes, holding her gaze as I slowly lick the sauce from his chin, just to enrage her further.  Finnick laughs at the game between us and throws a piece of bread at Johanna, hitting her squarely on the cheek.  This brings on a round of flying shells as we pelt each other with the discards of our meal.  Beetee catches a juicy bit of oyster on his glasses which earns us a stern shake of his head, as he is forced to take them off and wipe them clean.  “Kids” he mutters as he removes himself from the trajectory of flying shells and fish bones.

When everything is cleaned up, we have no choice but to wait.  Peeta and I lean against each other on the beach, watching as the sunset bleeds oranges, pinks and yellows into the sky.  We’ve made our case for mutual sacrifice and tried our hand at every sort of persuasion, whether it is to persuade the other to live or to persuade the other of their devotion.  The time for words and desperate acts is over.  I consider the possibility that this is the last sunset we will watch together and force myself to concentrate on every color, every thread that races across the sky. I try to control it but perhaps it is the lethargy of our large meal, the intractable beauty of oncoming night, Peeta’s now beloved heat seeping into my skin – all of these things together conspire to force hot tears out of my eyes. I angle my face downward so that Peeta cannot see me – I don’t want to burden him further. The drops fall into the sand, making the smooth powder coalesce into rugged little pebbles, the moisture drawing the grains into itself.  I feel his arm gently snake around my shoulders. He says nothing to me but the pebbles around our knees begin to multiply as I realize that I am not the only one pouring grief onto the sandy beach of the arena.

****

 


	3. Lightning

**Italics are direct quotes from _Catching Fire_ by Suzanne Collins.  None of the characters belong to me.**

 

At what Finnick and I judge to be about nine o’clock according to the moon, we begin our march up to the lightning tree from the 12 o’clock beach.  The moon is bright and I again bring up the rear with Peeta just ahead of me.  Our pace is made slower by our overstuffed bellies and I even feel nauseous as I try to hike briskly with what feels like ten pounds of oysters in my stomach.  When we arrive, Finnick is already there busily attaching the wire to a branch and passing the spool back and forth to Beetee as they wind it around the tree trunk.  The patterns of wire form a beautiful, intricate, criss-cross design across the base of the deadly tree and I am momentarily taken aback at just how little I know about so many things.  Education in the districts is strictly controlled and relates only to what is needed to be able to work in whatever specialty for which the district is known.  Therefore I am completely at a loss to understand Beetee’s plan with any depth.  Is the pattern intentional or not?  At that moment, the woosh of the ten o’clock wave reaches us at the lightning tree, its deadly waters drenching the sand along the beach.

When the sky says ten-thirty, Beetee explains the rest of his plan to us.  Johanna and I are tasked with unspooling the wire through the jungle down to the twelve o’clock beach where we will drop what is left in the water.  We are then to escape as quickly as possible into the jungle to avoid being electrocuted.  His words are barely out of his mouth when Peeta interjects.  “I’m going with them to guard.”   I see Beetee shake his head at this and I feel myself becoming rigid with tension.

_“You’re too slow. Besides, I’ll need you on this end. Katniss will guard,” says Beetee. “There’s no time to debate this. I’m sorry. If the girls are to get out of there alive, they need to move now.” He hands the coil to Johanna._

“No!” I exclaim at once.  “Let Finnick go with Johanna.  I’m not leaving Peeta.”

Johanna’s face contorts into a sneer.  “What the hell is wrong with you?  You’ll get a chance to be all up in each other’s pants again as soon as we drop the spool in the water.”

I clench my arrow, ready to snap into place when Peeta steps in front of me, his knife at the ready.  This has the effect of pumping the air with a palpable tension. “We stay together.  Or we both leave.  Your call.”

Finnick puts both of his hands up to pacify Peeta.  “No need for all of that, Peeta.  We just want things to work.  Katniss and Johanna are the fastest runners.”  Peeta is unmoved by this. “Trust us. We’re allies…”

“Yeah, but she’s carrying my baby.  We stay together.  No discussion.”

Finnick seems ready to say something else but thinks better of it, looking between us with utter confusion while Johanna lets out a string of expletives so colorful, I blush at her vulgarity.  I’m tempted to just go with Johanna to ensure the trap is laid out in time.  After all, it is in my best interests to get rid of as many opponents as possible.  However, the mild-banner baker’s son is unrelenting.  I don’t think any of has ever seen him so intractable and it is this obstinacy that wins the day.

Beetee is clearly frustrated with the entire exchange and speaks with authority. “Fine. Just go already, Finnick.  We’ll take care of everything here.  If you both don’t leave now, you won’t make it back in time.”

With a shared look of intense irritation, Johanna and Finnick relent and are off, unspooling the wire as quickly as they can.  They disappear into the jungle while Beetee turns away to tend to the tree. Peeta visibly relaxes and puts his knife down.  With his free arm, he pulls me to him and buries his face in my neck.  All of his words of warning in the water come rushing back to me and I shiver at how close I came to ignoring our pact to stay together.

“I told you.  I’m not letting you go,” he whispers into my hair. “Never.”  

I nod my head, his breath on my ear sending goose bumps over the surface of my skin despite the heavy air of danger surrounding us.  I pull back to look at him. “Peeta…” I begin but the words get lost against his mouth.  His fervid kiss is filled with so much need, I forget where I am and instead lean into him, savoring the feel of his heat against my skin.  I’ve never wanted to be somewhere else so badly and the desire to lay next him in a soft, safe place, to not be plagued with a thousand discomforts and dangers makes a sob rise up in me that is suppressed by his lips.

Beetee works vigorously to wrap the wire around the tree.  Peeta releases me and turns to offer his assistance but Beetee instructs him to stand guard instead and hands the wire to me as he ties knots around a branch that lies on the ground.  He works quietly, the complete opposite of the normally talkative, almost professorial air that he has taken with us in the past.  Peeta is alert, the sounds of the jungle eerily suppressed as if they, too, were in expectation of Beetee’s plan.  Before long, there is nothing to do but wait for the return of Finnick and Johanna.

Just as Beetee is winding down his own preparations, the wire that extends into the jungle suddenly goes slack.  Beetee swears as he touches the now limp metal, testing it for any sign of tautness but his efforts are futile.  He pulls at the cut wire, the end of it soon appearing in his hand.

“Someone cut the wire very close by,”  he says in a hushed voice, staring at it as if it would talk to him and tell him its secrets.

I ready my bow and arrow and ask, even though I know the answer,  “What does it mean?”

Beetee looks up from his meditation and says only “Ambush.”

Peeta is by my side in a moment.  “The Careers?” he whispers.

Beetee nods.  “Most likely.”  He begins muttering to himself, searching through his few things. “I have to think of something else.”  

At this, Peeta turns to me.  “Finnick and Johanna…?”

“We can’t think of them right now,” I hiss ferociously, though my heart sinks at the same time.  There is no way to help them.  I have only one person I need to keep safe.  Everyone else will have to fend for themselves.

After several minutes of strained silence, I suddenly hear the hushed sound of moist jungle debris crunching underfoot.  A less refined ear would not have heard the slight shifting of the dead leaves or the deep breathing. But I am a hunter before all other things and my well-trained senses are on alert.  Peeta instinctively crouches, holding his long knife before him in readiness.   I slowly back my way towards him, looking over my shoulder as I jerk my head slightly in the direction of the sound.  My heart is threatening to burst out of my chest and I make a valiant effort to force myself to breathe deeply.  Before he can acknowledge the direction of my head, a body hurtles out of the brush in the opposite direction and tackles Peeta to the ground, taking him down with a heavy crash.  

“Peeta!” I scream, aiming an arrow at the wrestling bodies on the ground.  I release it into Brutus’ back as another figure bursts at heart stopping speed from the trees to my right.  I load another arrow as I swing around and let it fly without a thought.  So quick is the swish of the feather against my cheek that the tip is buried in Enobaria’s throat before I hear the sound of it penetrating the skin of her neck.  The vision of her blood spurting out of her artery sickens me but she is relentless, the arrow doing little to stop her body from continuing it’s trajectory towards me.  Soon, the weight of her petite yet remarkably heavy body barrels into me and I am plummeting, the back of my head hitting the ground so hard, the pain lances all the way to my forehead.  

In the eerie light of the moon, I realize her struggles are no longer with me, but with her own convulsions as her blood gushes all over me, soaking my hair and my face.  The taste of her blood in my mouth threatens to bring up vomit but a sickening crack near me brings me back to the moment. I push her now limp body off of me.  My head is pounding and a dark fog is encroaching on the edge of my vision. The sound of the cannon penetrates my pain-addled brain and I know that her struggle is over.

Shaking as I push myself upright, I see Brutus wobble towards me, my arrow protruding out of his back and Peeta’s knife buried deep in his chest.  His face goes gray as he falls to his knees, eyes locking on me. I am unable to tear my eyes away from the fading light in his.  Suddenly, he collapses backwards and the cannon announces that his turn in these games has ended also.

Frantically, I look around me.  “Peeta?”  I call to him as I scramble to my feet, searching the murky darkness for him.   _Where is he?!_  Desperately wiping Enobaria’s blood from my face, I go into the bush around the trees in the direction of the lightning tree, not three feet from us.  That is when I see Beetee on the ground, twitching though unconscious.  An image of Peeta lying on the ground and singed by the force field comes to mind, which brings him back to the center of my attention.  My heart is pounding in my chest as the hysteria begins to rise within me.  “Peeta!” I scream.  He must be alive!  The cannon has been silent so far.  “Peeta!”

I search the area of his struggle with Brutus and that is when I see his boot between the trees. I race over and my entire body freezes in horror.  He is lying within view of Beetee.  Anyone observing him would have thought he was resting quietly in the bushes.  Kneeling next to him, I see nothing amiss - no blood or wounds - which instantly fills me with relief.  However, it is short-lived as I look up to his luminous face and see the bleeding contusion on the side of his head.  Not a foot away is a large, bloodied rock, triggering a terrible panic in me.  I shake him gently and whisper his name.  “Peeta?” It is not a question, but a supplication.  “Peeta?”  I shake him more roughly but he remains inert.

I put my shaky hands on the pulse of his throat and feel the strong rhythm that has lulled me to sleep through so many nightmares. I open one of his eyes and that is when terror truly takes over me.  His eye is completely dilated, the dark pupil has taken over the clear blue irises of his eyes.   _This could also be the consequence of the darkness, despite the bright moon_  I think hopefully.  I begin to tremble as I open the other eye and find that this one indeed responds to the light but irregularly and weakly.  The side of his head in the meantime is swelling to an unnatural size, blood oozing from a gash I am only just noticing.  

I am transported back to my small kitchen in the Seam.  My mother – before she became a wraith – treating an injured miner.  A giant boulder had fallen on his head.  Underestimating his wounds, he went straight home instead of seeking treatment (no one could afford the luxury of a visit even to the healer unless the circumstances were truly dire).  Soon he complained of a terrible headache.  He lost his equilibrium, his ability to see and shortly thereafter, to speak.  When he was finally brought to my mother, his two young sons were forced to carry him for he was no longer conscious.  My mother made incisions around his head wounds but there was nothing she could do any longer.  Too much time had passed. In just a few hours, the family was making arrangements to bury the man.

This is not just a concussion.  Peeta has a serious head wound and he will die if he is not cared for right away.

The realization of his impending death breaks something strong and solid in me; I become a wild, unfettered creature.  I’m mad and crying before I realize it and hysteria bubbles up, crowding out all logical thinking.  “Peeta.”  I moan, my tears mingling with Enobaria’s blood, creating a slimy concoction that rolls over my face.   “Don’t die!.  Don’t die!”  I’m shaking him again but I know he won’t ever respond, no matter how much I jostle and move him.  “You promised… You wouldn’t leave me!”  I wail, bringing myself down next to lie him, my ear against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.  I’m keening now against his ribs, smearing his firm blond skin with tears and blood.  

All feeling in me drops off into an abyss. I stop caring.  Let Finnick or Johanna find me.  I’m done with these Games.  I thought if Peeta died, I would not be able to live the rest of my life knowing that he never got out and I was right.  I wouldn’t live with it the rest of my life because I wasn’t leaving here either.

The will to survive drains out of me.  The parade of faces I will no longer see begins and ends with Peeta’s but I also feel my heart crack further when I envision Prim, Gale and my mother for the first time since I set them free.  I feel a limp immobility overtake me and let it root me to this spot. Brain swelling that went untreated led to coma and death and I would not have the time to take out Johanna and Finnick before Peeta’s brain become saturated and it drowned in his own blood.  I sobbed into his chest.  “Please, please, please!  Wait for me.”  I was inconsolable and by sheer accident, I let my eyes fall where Beetee lays, splayed against the ground.  

The cannon hasn’t fired yet.  He’s still alive.  

I don’t know why this revives me but I bring myself to sit upright despite the pounding of my own head and crawl over to him.  His twitching has slowed down and he is mumbling in his confusion.  I bring my ear down to listen to his words.

“You w-were right…” Beetee forces through his chattering teeth.  “W-weak-s-spot…”  he stutters.  “F-force f-field…blow up-p the a-re-rena…”

My grief recedes and a primitive force takes over me, the wheels of my mind begin to turn, fueled by brute survival instinct as I recall what he had been trying to do before the wire snapped.  I pick up the wire that is tied to the tree and observe that it is wound about his knife like yarn on a skein.  What on earth was he doing?   _Think!_ I look up at the force field and back down at the knife, recalling the cracking sound I heard before.  A realization dawns on me like a rush of hope, scattering my terror for Peeta.  Beetee was up to something and I don’t know what it is but it was more than just electrifying the beach.    He had tried to stab the force field; that was why he was semi-conscious.  But why? _Why?_

_Blow up the arena…_

My brain scrambles for a logical explanation but there is none to be had.  However, a plan takes root in my mind.  I don’t have all the clues but if there is one person I trust here besides Peeta, it is Beetee.  My ruminations are interrupted by my name desperately being called from below the tree line.  “Katniss! Katniss!”  My heart gives a momentary lurch as my name is uttered in an unmistakable male voice and for a joyous moment, I think it’s Peeta’s.  However, my mind delivers the umpteenth disappointment and I deflate when I recognize the voice as that of Finnick instead.  I hear scrambling in the tree line below and know that both Finnick and Johanna will soon be here.  But why make all that ruckus?  They don’t know for whom the cannons were fired.  I shake my head and turn my attention to the force field.  I’m running out of time.

I get up from my spot and run to fetch the bow and arrow I dropped near Peeta.  Looking at him, I kneel to touch his cheek.   I’m standing at the edge of a deep ravine where all my grief awaits me and force myself to back away from it.  I can’t imagine what Beetee was hoping to find on the other side but if there was even a tiny chance that whatever it was could save Peeta, I was not going to let the chance escape. I tear myself away from him reluctantly, racing back to where I dropped the knife near the tree.  

Adrenaline courses through me as I struggle to unwind the wire from the knife, the sound of approaching footsteps accelerating towards me.  I’ve wrapped the wire around my arrow and positioned it in my bow, pointing to the shimmering square in the force field that only I can see when the top of Finnick’s bronze head appears above the slope.  Johanna is two steps ahead of him, her eyes wide with shock as she takes in my position - on my feet, legs spread out, an arrow poised in the air, no longer caring if I am creating the most perfect target for her ax.  Finnick grabs her arm and pulls her back to him.  

“Do it, Katniss!” he shouts as he crouches over Johanna and I have my certainty.  Haymitch’s voice reverberates through my already teeming head.

_When you are in the arena, just remember who the real enemy is._

_Why would I need reminding? I have always known who the enemy is. Who starves and tortures and kills us in the arena. Who will soon kill everyone I love._  Who has already killed the one that I love?

I take one last glance at Peeta’s limp body, trying to take courage that whatever it is I am doing will be better than doing nothing at all and if it ends in tragedy, so be it.  It can’t be any worse than the tragedy I am living now.  The square shimmers as the arrow pierces it, the wire flying along with it.  I’m too close to the tree when I feel the electricity pass through my hair and into the surrounding air, the blast of lightning blowing Finnick, Johanna and me off of our feet as it explodes.  My head, already pounding from my first impact with the ground, now throbs from being knocked again with renewed pain as my vision beginning to swim before me.  

Meanwhile, the wire is alight with the energy of the lightning bolt. The dome of the force field sizzles and crackles with a blue light as bright as Peeta’s eyes and I turn my dazed head towards him, now only a few inches from me.  I want so much to close the space between us but I am paralyzed and my desire comes to nothing.  My body is pinned to the ground by an invisible force but my eyes search his profile as a series of explosions rock my peripheral vision.  I am riveted by the halo of light reflected on his clear skin, and forget the burning arena as the light seems to set every strand of his golden hair on fire.  I am no longer seeing earthly Peeta, the solid certainty of his mortal coil but Peeta as he has always been, as he really is - his incandescent soul perhaps rising out of his battle-worn body.  In my delirium we have both become surreal.  Maybe this is how he will lead me into eternity and I feel a moment of pure bliss that after everything, this is how it will all end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I got a lot of feedback about what should happen at the lightning tree and, after a bit of waffling and numerous emails to SolasVioletta, MADAME BETH and TiffOdair, I have finally settled on this version. The heavy editing was bravely undertaken by SolasVioletta who can polish the roughest stone. I also send a giant kiss to my beta, TiffOdair, who refuses to let me slack on my writing.


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must give my usual thanks to SolasVioletta who suggested important plot points and did a deep revision of the text. I also thank TiffOdair for reading it over and giving it her seal of approval.

Turning my head back to the sky, I see fireworks and wonder at the Gamemaker’s theatrical touch on our collective destruction.  Peeta is bleeding his life out into the ground but the Capitol has gone and lit fireworks for our troubles. As the trees and vegetation burst into flames, I think of how unlikely it is that any of us was ever meant to survive.  It would be Snow’s prerogative to show his absolute power, _“…a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol…”_  Was this the plan all along or had I gone and done it again – blown up the arena and given them no choice but to destroy all of us?  I utter a silent apology to Finnick, Johanna, and Beetee. Certainly, if I had simply stayed with Peeta, one of them would have finished me off and been crowned Victor.  As it was, I had thrown all my cards out of the game and sentenced each and every one of us to death.  

But why should I care?  Peeta is dead.

It’s when I see the hovercraft materialize above me that I think _–  Of course, this is my life we’re talking about here.  I will not even be allowed to die as I choose_.  The arrival of the Capitol ship fills me with the fury to escape.  I look to Peeta.  Why hadn’t I just run myself through with an arrow when I had the chance?  The birds I had released before entering the games come to flock around my conscience.  There is no telling what would be done to me or my family.  Now that Peeta is dead, I could personally endure everything – death or torture.  I could be repackaged and reused.  But the face of Prim dancing before my eyes and the terror that somehow she would be made to suffer because of me makes my body scream against the metal claw that now scoops me up and brings me higher and higher into the reverberating sky.

My suspicions are confirmed when I see Plutarch Heavensbee in the hangar of the hovercraft.  I’m still immobile as the metal arm deposits me on a slab that extends out of the floor and suddenly becomes mobile.  The arm is sent down the open hole of the hovercraft and I think in a moment of insane hope that maybe Peeta will be retrieved and saved.  He surely won’t be punished.  Maybe he will be made into an Avox to serve future Victors.  Maybe after all of this, he will live.  My heart races now, not out of fear, but irrational, childish hope before I remember that he, too, could be used to punish me.

Meanwhile, Heavensbee’s pasty, pampered Capitol fingers are soft as they ghost over my brow.  I feel the pinch in my left forearm and watch as the tracker is carefully removed by a tall, rugged woman with thick dark hair and impossibly textured brown, eyes.  Her suit is like nothing I’ve ever seen in the Capitol before. It looks almost too plain – a solid grey jumpsuit whose color does nothing for her steamy, dramatic features.  Another pinch in my arm and it is with the memory of dark chocolate and honey, of strong arms releasing me to sink into the comfort of this confection that I dissolve into unconsciousness.

 

**XXXXX**

 

I hover between sleep and wakefulness, my body foreign to me. I am laying on something soft and padded.  Though my neck muscles feel thick, I turn my head to observe the room.  White, everything so white it gleams.  There are rows of beds facing each other in the stark brightness.  And breathing.  Heavy, mechanical breathing.  I roll my head in the direction of the sound and see Beetee, attached to an army of machines, his battered body limp on a bed at the foot of mine.  But where is everyone else?

My mind flies to Peeta and my body responds with trembling, unsure movement.  I swing my legs off of the bed, feeling dizzy by the demand on my body.  He might be dead already but I need to find him anyway.  I need to finish what these Games have started.  If he is dead, I am determined to put an end to myself and perhaps spare my family the pain of being used against me.  But if he is alive, I'm not going to let the Capitol hurt him anymore.  I just need a weapon.  I catch sight of a table near Beetee’s bed filled with sealed syringes and snatch a few off of the table.  Glancing at him, I shake my head.   _Was this your magical plan?  Did you think blowing up the arena was going to make things better?_  I mentally kick myself for being so naïve, so quick to cling to hope.  I turn away from him, wanting to end his misery also but remembering there was only one person I was determined to protect.  If I injected air into Beetee’s veins and he died, those machines would go off and I would not make it out of the room.

I pad quietly down the frozen corridor, shivering with fear and cold, astounded at the lack of security. I must be in a hole so deep that escape is deemed impossible.  I continue my silent creeping until I hear the muffled sounds of voices.  Gliding quietly to an open metal door, I listen carefully to the voice inside.  

“ _Communications are down in Seven and Ten_.  There are some reports coming out of Twelve that we are trying to confirm that don’t sound good.   _Eleven has control of transportation so there’s at least a hope of them getting some food out._ ”  It is Heavensbee’s voice but I can’t grasp who he is speaking to.

“We have reports of a mass refugee situation in Four.  It’s a huge district.”  A hoarse voice asks a question.  

“No, I’m sorry; there are Capitol forces on the ground in Four.  I can’t get you in.  I’ve given special orders for a search and recovery amongst the refugees.  It’s the best I can do, Finnick.”  

My heart sinks.  Finnick.  He seemed to understand Beetee’s plan.  Was he so beloved by the Capitol that they would overlook his crimes?

_Do it, Katniss!_

My aching head throbs further as he says something in a tone that speaks of bottomless grief.

 _“Don’t be stupid.  That’s the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure if she’s captured.  As long_ _as you’re alive, they’ll keep her alive for bait,” says Haymitch._

Haymitch!

I burst through the door.  My heart is somewhere in my throat as I take in the room – a table set with food, Haymitch at one end, a bedraggled Finnick seated next to a window. Johanna stares blankly out of another window where in the distance I see the tops of trees.  We are flying.

Haymitch is about to speak but maybe it’s the desperation in Finnick’s face that I recognize as my own; maybe it’s because seeing Haymitch brings back District 12 with the force like a slap in the face, maybe it is because I meant to solve one mystery only to discover a more confusing one in its place but I know I will not survive the sarcasm in his voice if I let him talk to me at that moment.  I imagine the insane figure I cut – white, wrinkled gown, plastic syringe in hand, the expression of one who has become untethered from everything, even herself.  There is an endless wail waiting in my chest that will escape and be heard across Panem and I know that I must take care not to release it.

“What the hell is going on here?” I’m impressed by the raspy harshness of my voice, though I feel like shattering into a million fragments inside.  It is Johanna’s voice that pierces my confusion.

“Oh, look, Princess Brainless is awake,” she sneers before looking out the window, as if everything about me bores her.

My sudden irritation at her meaningless venom together with the shock of finding them all here in this incongruous situation overwhelms me.  My body betrays me and I fall towards Haymitch.  He gets on his feet and catches me, steadying me.  “ _Were you going to take on the Capitol with a syringe?  See, this is why no one lets you make the plans_.” Johanna gives a derisive chuckle. “Drop it, Katniss.”  I do as I’m told, my bravado bleeding out of me and I sink into a chair next to Finnick.

“Try to eat,” says Heavensbee gently, sliding a bowl of soup and a roll before me.   I look at him as if Snow himself had offered me the meal. My stomach lurches with hunger but I am desperate to know what is happening.  The tale that Haymitch weaves for me leeches all the appetite out of me and fills me up with rage instead.  

The plan was to blow up the arena.  All of the tributes from 3, 4, 6 ,7, 8 and 11 had some knowledge of the plot.  Heavensbee, for years an undercover rebel, ensured that Beetee had the materials he needed to make the plot happen. The bread was a code for the rescue time. District three meant the day and the number of rolls was the hour.  When the arena blew up, there would be air support from District 13, which indeed exists as we were in a hovercraft headed there.  In the meantime, most of Panem was in full-scale rebellion.  

“Even District 12?” I asked.

Heavensbee turns to me.  “We are trying to confirm the reports about Twelve’s status.  Communications went down 24 hours ago and we haven’t been able to get anyone in there.”

I’m swooning now with the reality before me.  I had not been consulted.  All of these secrets under my nose kept by people I thought I trusted and now District 12 had gone silent.  I feel a murderous hatred towards Haymitch.  At least in the Games I knew I was being played.  But he was my mentor.  I had begged for Peeta’s life…

“Why didn’t you tell Peeta and me about the plan?” I hiss at him.  

His face becomes stone.  “When the arena blew up, you would be the first they’d go after.”

“But why?  That makes no sense…” I fumble with the truth again and almost drop it.

“We had to save you because you’re the Mockingjay, Katniss,” says Plutarch. “While you live, the revolution lives.”

_Revolution.  The bird, the pin, the song, the berries, the watch, the cracker, the dress…_

The one who refused to die.  Refused to play the game.  And my supposed mentor, the lies he tells with a face full of liquor…

My heart begins to fragment.  I hear his name in my head before I say it.

“Peeta…”

“The others kept him alive because we knew there would be no way to keep you in an alliance if he died.”  Haymitch’s mask falters now.  “We knew he would do everything to protect you.”

_“I told you.  I’m not letting you go.” He whispers into my hair. “Never.”_

I find breathing difficult and steel myself for my next question.  “You never intended to save him, did you?  You lied to me.” I’m seething with every black feeling that has ever passed through my heart.  The shared bottle of white liquor.  The promise that this time, Peeta would survive.  Haymitch’s face takes on a grey pallor.  I’m unarmed and weaker than I’ve ever been but no one should underestimate the strength of desperation and a set untrimmed nails.  I am across the table and on his face before anyone can stop me, his blood and skin crammed under my nails.  We hurl terrible insults at each other as I kick and scream like a rabid animal.  I feel Finnick’s arms lock around me while Johanna and Heavensbee pull Haymitch back down to the table.

“Where is he?” I scream.  “What did you do to him!”

He finally drops his eyes as he wipes the blood from his face.  Finally feels some shame.  It’s Heavensbee who answers.

“Katniss, he’s in bad shape.  We don’t have the medical facilities like in the Capitol.  His head wound was severe and it was almost too late…”

_He’s here._

“I need to see him.”  I try to shake myself of Finnick’s arms, feeling the wave of nausea and dizziness but trying not to sway under the power of it.  Finnick, up until now watching in despondent silence, relaxes his grip and steadies me, keeping me from collapsing.  Maybe these were hands I could trust.

“Katniss…” begins Haymitch.  

I turn my eye on him in feral rage.  “No. Don’t.  Don’t speak to me.  Ever.  Again.

The grey shade of shame hardens to concrete and he turns away, taking out his flask and emptying it in one gulp.  Johanna has since slipped out, the show apparently not intense enough to hold her interest anymore.

Heavensbee hesitates before describing Peeta’s situation.   The words tumble out of him and wash over me, unable as I am to truly grasp them, a reality my brains struggles against.   _Erratic brain activity…draining the blood and fluid, trying to relieve the pressure in his skull…medically induced coma._  Words and words and more words until Finnick’s weary, sad voice penetrates through them.

“Don’t stall, man.  Let her see him.  What more harm can be done?”  he pleads.

“Perhaps she would like to wash up…” he watches my hands warily.

“He’s in a coma, for fuck’s sake, Plutarch!  He’s not going to notice!” Finnick responds impatiently.

Taken aback, Plutarch stiffly rises and leads the way out of the door and down the hall, further along than I had gone.  Without being asked, Finnick walks quietly next to me and I am grateful because when we come upon a windowed observation room, I open the door, the sight that greets me provoking a powerful vertigo.  Finnick’s strong hands are the only thing keeping me from collapsing on the ground.  

He is lying naked on the gurney covered only by a thin, hospital blanket.  But he is barely recognizable to me.  His head is completely bandaged in white, a narrow drainage tube emerging from the swathing.  He is not breathing on his own; instead a machine pumps air into his lungs through an accordion shaped plastic tube fastened to his cheek, plunging down past his full lips and into his trachea.  The tube pulls his open mouth into a half-grimace and I have to resist the urge to rip it out of his mouth, so uncomfortable it appears to me.  His eyes are closed, his thick lashes resting against his pale skin and I focus on the way the fluorescent lights bleach them almost to transparency.  

He seems so young.  A boy.  A hulking, muscular, oversized boy who lies so exposed  on that hospital bed that all I want is to wrap myself around him and keep him safe from all the uncertainty – the doctors, District 13, this revolution.  A tremor begins in my chest and races out to the tips of my fingers and toes.  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, like an incantation, over and over again.  Reaching out to touch his hand, his skin shocks me with its iciness.  I wrap both of my small hands around his large one and gently rub it, trying to transfer some of my warmth to his skin.

“He’s so cold.  Can’t they cover him with something warmer?” I choke out miserably.  As I say this, I feel rather than hear another person enter the room and it is she who answers me.

“The temperature is regulated to ensure that he retains his body heat.”  I turn to see the same chocolate-eyed woman. She stands next to me, holding a chart on a clear clipboard.  “I’m Dr. Aguilar.  I assure you he is as comfortable as he can be under the circumstances.”

I scrutinize her for a moment.  She stands a full head taller than me and erect, but not rigid.  She is a voluptuous woman of about Haymitch’s age, though her curves bespeak a fit and healthy body.  Her stunning dark eyes are nestled in a luminous face, skin smooth as a child’s.  It is clear that it had not suffered the sun or elements as mine had.  She’s pretty enough to be one of those mindless women that appear on television but she gives off the air of brisk intelligence instead.  If my heart were not bleeding in a thousand places, I might have liked her.  As it is, I am overcome with anger and grief, and the need to discharge this onto someone.

“How do you know?  Touch him.  He’s freezing!”

“He is in a medically induced coma.  All of his body functions have been slowed to reduce the blood pressure to his brain.  As such, his extremities will be of a lower temperature than his core.  But if it makes you feel better,” she walks over to a panel in the wall and presses it open, pulling out a textured blanket and laying it carefully over him.  She turns back to me and I am disarmed by her compliance.

Here, Plutarch clears his throat and speaks up.  “Dr. Aguilar is the head of District 13’s trauma unit.  She volunteered to join the mission to tend to any medical emergencies that might have arisen.  I think you can be confident in her training.” He puffs himself up as if he is somehow been responsible for her competence.

Ignoring his flattery, Dr. Aguilar looks down at her chart.  “As soon as you are ready, I will be happy to debrief you on his status.”

“I’m ready,” I say with a steady voice that belies the terror that roils my stomach.  I try to control the trembling in my legs but I am swooning again and Finnick reaches around to hold onto me.  Dr. Aguilar pulls a folded metal object from the side of Peeta’s bed and opens it, revealing a chair on wheels.  “Please have a seat, Ms. Everdeen.  Has she eaten yet?”

Plutarch shakes his head.  “I offered her something but…” he trails off.

“Well,” she says, looking sternly at him, then back at me.  “Please be sure she has something to eat.  I will be in the debriefing room in 15 minutes to examine her vitals again and then we can talk.”

My head rolls on my shoulders as I protest weakly but she looks at me with her steady, warm gaze.  “You came on board undernourished, dehydrated and with a concussion.  You need to be taken care of.  I promise I will tell you everything you want to know.  No bullshit.  Okay?”

My eyes become moist in response.  The days in the arena, the horror of Peeta’s possible death, the revelations of a secret revolution organized by someone who I thought had Peeta and my best interests at heart – all of these things were taking their toll. The adrenaline of the last hour was leaching out of me and I feel the most profound exhaustion that I had ever felt in my life overtake me.

I simply nod as Finnick pulls the chair towards him and wheels me back down to the room I’d found him in earlier.  He sits down next to me and begins to pull the bowls of soup and bread close to us.  After days of eating raw seafood and gamey rats, I should have been relieved to eat warm, cooked food but everything that passes my lips feels like sandpaper.  The broth, the rolls, the slices of thick, creamy cheese – they make no impact on my deadened taste buds.  As I push the spoon through my lips, I look over at Finnick.  He is chewing quietly, tears streaking his worn face.  He rocks just slightly in place, as he goes through the motions of eating.  Something in his demeanor reminds me of Prim when she was small and would cry quietly when she was disappointed – no histrionics or wailing but the sad keening of a person who had given themselves over to a defeat.  

I can’t resist the shadow of my sister on him and reach across the metal chair, pulling him to me. I am not accustomed to having people close to me except for Peeta and Prim so it seems strange to feel him in my arms.  My nose instinctively searches for Peeta’s smell on him but instead of cinnamon and uncooked bread, I smell the sea.  I let him grip me as he sobs into my neck and I am not ashamed for him.  There is a sense that we are still allies even though we are no longer in the arena and I could not deny him or myself the comfort of this solidarity.  I can’t identify the source of his grief, whether it is for himself or for his family but that heart-breaking sadness is not unfamiliar to me and I give myself over to my own tears.  We sit there for a long time until we both stop crying, not because our grief has somehow spent itself but because we are physically unable to produce any more tears.

We pull apart and eat quietly, leaving each other to our lonely thoughts.

 

**XXXXX**

 

Soon Dr. Aguilar returns, thankfully without Plutarch.  She sits herself down at the table and turns the pages of her flipchart.  After reviewing her paperwork, she shuts the chart and sets it aside.

“We will be in District 13 by 0-4-hundred.  Until then, I fully expect the both of you to rest until then.  I do not want to have to medicate you against your will but I will if I have to.  Our priority is to deliver you in good health and this extends also to any Victors who were rescued from the arena.”  She paused, looking directly into my eyes.  “I’ll start with the medical diagnosis and clarify everything from there.  Peeta’s received a severe intra-cranial trauma caused by a blunt impact to the left hemisphere resulting in an epidural hematoma.  This has also resulted in dangerously high intracranial pressure.” She pauses as she absorbs my utter and complete confusion.  “In another words, Peeta was hit on the left side of his head with a heavy object…”

“A rock.” I interject.

“That’s consistent.  You see, the brain has three layers of membranes, each  with a different function but essentially ensuring the optimal flow of brain fluids and blood while keeping the brain in place.  Peeta came in with a hemorrhage between two of those membranes, resulting in increased pressure on his brain.  This is why he is unconscious.  However, this pressure interferes with basic functions and can be deadly when left untreated.  I therefore attempted to relieve the intra-cranial pressure or ICP by putting him in a medically-induced coma, and performing an emergency intervention to introduce the drainage tube into his brain.  I have also relieved his body of other automated functions such as breathing and blood flow to control the level of ICP on his brain."

“Is this why his pupils didn’t dilate right?” I ask, remembering how strange his eyes looked when I found him.

“That is correct.  This is actually a sign of very severe brain trauma.”  Dr. Aguilar pauses to allow the information to sink in.  I’m seized by a terror that everything I had done will not have been enough to save him after all.  The dark chasm of my grief wants to engulf me whole until only darkness lies between me and this new reality.

It is Finnick who speaks now.  “What will happen to him now?  Will he recover?”

Dr. Aguilar takes a deep breath.  “The operating room is being prepped as we speak.  He will have to go into surgery immediately upon our arrival in District 13.  I do not have the facilities to perform anything beyond what I have done already.  Once he has had preliminary and post-operative brain scans, I will be able to give you more information.”  She stops again, gathering her thoughts before continuing. “There is a wide continuum of outcomes that you should prepare for, anything from speech, vision or motor loss to changes in personality, persistent coma and” here she pauses before pushing through her words, “in some cases, even death.” I blanch at the hated word, the entire bottom of my stomach falling out.  

Dr. Aguilar reaches her hand out to take mine.  “We got to him just before it was too late, Katniss.  His brain is well oxygenated and the swelling is greatly reduced.  There are some reasons to be optimistic.  We have excellent physical therapists if he should be so impaired as to require it.  We just have to wait and have faith that all will turn out well.  While his situation appears dire, I’ve seen people emerge from worse injuries than this.”  She squeezes my hand.  “I will be involved in the surgery and every step of his convalescence afterwards.  Just trust that we will do everything in our power to bring him back to you.”

The tears are already drenching my face and gown as I nod in acknowledgement, not trusting myself to say more.  

She briskly examines Finnick and me and then leads us back to the ward.  Beetee is still unconscious under the droning of his army of machines and Johanna is in another bed, snoring quietly.  Dimming the lights further, she helps me into the bed and kindly situates Finnick next to mine.  “I’m going to strongly recommend a sedative to help you both rest.  I can’t imagine you will get any sleep otherwise.”  

Finnick seems to welcome the sedative, offering his arm quietly to Dr. Aguilar to recieve his injection.  As he sinks into unconsciousness, I am suddenly seized with an irrational panic that Peeta could disappear at any time if I am not vigilant.  It is a panic as old as my father’s death – when I learned at a young age how easy it was to lose everything.

As Dr. Aguilar prepares my syringe, I interrupt her. “Please, may I sleep in Peeta’s room?"

She pauses in her preparations to consider this for a moment, her head tilted a bit to the side.  “That would not be consistent with medical protocol.  However,” she reaches under the bed and unlatches the wheels, motioning for me to hold on,  “These are extraordinary circumstances.”

She pushes the gurney down the hall and sets it up near Peeta, as close as possible without interfering with the equipment around him.  I’m close enough to reach across the gurneys and take his still frigid hand in mine.  I stare at his profile for a long while, willing him to open his eyes and look at me but I know he won’t.  Taking a cue from Finnick, I allow Dr. Aguilar to inject me with the sedative.  I’m grateful when the medication pushes me into unconsciousness.  The last thought I have before sleep overtakes me is a fervent wish that Peeta will somehow find a way out of his own darkness and back to me.

 


	5. Dust to Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t ever say enough about my brilliant beta, SolasVioletta, who takes the time to listen to all the drool that my brain produces and is just an exceptional beta and friend. She also suggested the title of this fic based on the song “Dust to Dust” by The Civil Wars. She suggested the band and the song and I love both!
> 
> I also want to give a shout out to TiffOdair for pre-reading this chapter and reminding me regularly that it is really about time I get something posted.

I emerge from the shadowy dream world of a heavily medicated sleep with no clear idea where I am. I expect to see the sallow-barked trees of the arena towering over me, hot gritty sand burning under my shoulders and thighs. Instead, I am in another stark, white room with dim light, a one-way observation window taking up the far wall. I’m no longer in the room I fell asleep in on the hovercraft. Remembering this, my mind works backwards through the latest events until it lands squarely in the arena again, every detail flooding my foggy brain.  I struggle to straighten myself, looking around for his gurney but find myself alone. My heart slams painfully into my ribs and I gasp from the sudden panic.

“Peeta!” I’m trying to get into an upright position but my muscles feel like they’ve been injected with tracker-jacker venom. They tremble heavily and the effort to straighten up causes the room to spin around me. Between the sudden nausea and panic, I’m completely lost, grabbing the edge of the mattress to find purchase asthe world tilts around me. This incapacitation frustrates me further and I bang on the bed, willing the room to stay straight when I swing my legs over the edge. A nurse rushes in, just catching me as I collapse to the floor.

“Please, Ms. Everdeen, you’re going to hurt yourself. Let’s just…” the woman heaves me up and I have no choice but to lean against her, my head a mad whirl, “…Let’s just get you up here now, alright?” She helps me get back onto the bed. “The sedative combined with your concussion are going to keep you off your feet for a while.”

Settling down onto the firm mattress, I take in the features of my nurse. She’s a jowly woman of maybe 50 years with skin that reminds me of Rue. Her hair is a collection of those same tight, wiry curls but they are cropped close to her head. I reach my hand out to the lapel of her smock. “Please, my…” the words catch in my dry throat. “…my…frie-…fiance…” I gulp nervously. “Peeta Mellark. He was hurt.  Is he close by?”

The nurse gently removes my hand, setting it down on the bed as she adjusts the sheet around me. “The doctor will be in shortly to speak to you. Just rest a little now.”

The spinning in my head has slowed down now and I am able to focus on a point in space without it sliding out of my vision. “Please. I just want to know where he is. I won’t rest if I don’t know.”

The nurse pauses as if considering things. She whispers quickly. “Mr. Mellark is in surgery right now. As soon as they got him off that Hovercraft, he was rushed right into the operating room. There is no other information at this time.” She goes to pull away but I grab her sleeve.

“How long has it been since we got here?” I ask.

“Almost three days. Now rest or I’ll have to give you a sedative again and you see what that feels like.”

I simply nod my head and put my forearm over my eyes. The room has the same quality of sterile chilliness as that of the hovercraft. It is the worst kind of déjà vu – a familiar place, the same desire to run the halls and discover whatever harsh truths lay behind those metal walls. But this time, I am incapacitated. I do not try to sit up again – the nausea was too strong for me the first time I tried. I think first and foremost about Peeta. Then I wonder where Finnick is and kick myself for not remembering to ask my nurse. My heart thuds because of all this, the panic and urgent need for nervous movement making me feel like I’ve swallowed a hummingbird.

As it is, I’m stranded on this gurney so I simply must lie there trying not to crawl out of my own skin, waiting for something to happen.

After an interminable amount of time the door swings open and the familiar face of Dr. Aguilar appears in a white coat, her dark features strained with exhaustion. She is followed by another man, who I assume is also a doctor. I make to sit up but Dr. Aguilar shakes her head and moves a button near my bed which causes the back of the bed to climb slowly until I am in sitting position.

“How is your head feeling?” she asks.

“I’m having trouble getting up.” I say.

“That is the sedative and the effects of your concussion. It will wear off shortly and you will be able to get up again. Katniss, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Aurelius, the local trauma specialist and head psychiatrist.” She pauses and looks at me meaningfully. “We have some news about Peeta.”

I lurch upward, forgetting my head and feeling the world swim sickeningly before me. Dr. Aguilar puts a hand on my shoulder and I grasp it in an attempt to steady the world. “How is he?” I gasp through the vertigo.

“Peeta is in the intensive care unit now. It was a fairly routine hematoma removal and presented no further complications. He has a contusion area on the left side of his brain, consistent with my preliminary findings but scans have brought up no other signs of injury. He is no longer experiencing brain compression and internal pressure has returned to normal.” She pauses as I absorb her medical gibberish. “In other words, his brain is bruised but he has no blood clots and his brain isn’t bleeding. How’s that?”

“It sounds like a good thing?” I venture.

Dr. Aguilar smiles. “ _It is_ a good thing. He will remain unconscious until his brain is ready to take on the world again. For now, he is still in a medically induced coma for the next 48 hours while we keep him under observation.”

After the unforgettable horror of seeing him on the ground, thinking him dead and then on the gurney, wrapped like a plastic doll, unrecognizable except for his strong hands - beautiful thick hands that mean safety and more - my brain is having trouble accepting this truth. I feel tears drizzle down my cheeks as I repeat my question to the doctor like a dumb thing. “This is good, right? He might be okay?”

A look of infinite tenderness crosses Dr. Aguilar’s face. “He has a very good chance of being okay. Keep in mind, we cannot anticipate the impairments he may have. So far, scans are showing normal activity and stimulus response but the mind is a complex thing. There is no way to anticipate how a brain injury will manifest itself. But we can usually work through most of these impairments with good therapy if the underlying brain area has not been damaged beyond repair.”

I nod vigorously at this, wanting to believe her optimism, needing to believe it. Because right now, I’m in a place I don’t know, in the hands of people I don’t trust, in a reality I can’t wrap my mind around. I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand.

“In the meantime, Dr. Aurelius will be offering psychological support to you and the other victors.”

I look at her warily. In District 12, we could barely afford to get our most banal physical wounds treated, never mind the luxury of a head doctor. Do they think I’ve gone beanie on them? I feel my face go blank as I try to contain my negative feelings. “What do I need a psychiatrist for?” I ask.

Dr. Aurelius clears his throat and speaks up. “It is very likely you and the other victors are suffering from post-traumatic stress, a condition that afflicts individuals who have endured great trauma. In the arena, you displayed several symptoms of this condition.”

I stiffen at this. “You watched the Games?”

He nods. “The Hunger Games are required viewing for the residents of District 13 to remind us of the excesses of the Capitol.” I take a deep breath, seized by a sudden discomfort. I desperately want them to leave my room now. There was more than just PTSD that they had been privy too. “Many of your behaviors and that of the other victors are consistent with PTSD. But we don’t have to worry about all of that right now.” A sudden beeping sound goes off on Dr. Aguilar’s belt, drawing both doctors’ attention away from me. She becomes stone-faced as she reads the message on a communicator I had not noticed before.

“Dr. Aurelius, we’re needed in the emergency center, stat. Katniss,” an unreadable expression crosses her face, “We have to prepare to receive an influx of refugees. Please rest. As soon as your vitals check out, you will be assigned living quarters. The feeling of disorientation should be wearing off very shortly. I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I can. No running in the corridors, okay?” she smiles but it is tight and I have a vague premonition that refuses to be defined.

“How about Finnick and Johanna?” I call out to them as they hasten towards the door.

“Finnick and Johanna are fine and resting in their rooms. The engineer, Beetee, is out of surgery and in the recovery center.” I simply nod as they exit my room in a swish of starchy white frocks.

I struggle to calm myself again. Now that the intense fear for Peeta’s well-being has been temporarily removed, I am able to focus on the myriad other details of my current situation that demand my attention. I had been sure that I would die in the Arena but now that I am here and given the circumstances of my freedom, I begin to feel a disconsolate terror for those I love still in District 12. It wasn’t so much forgetting Peeta as being reminded that there were now others to be terrified for and those delicate birds that I’d released were fluttering back to me on fragile wings. I had essentially painted a target on their backs. Has President Snow already gotten to them? Are they even alive?

I feel the tremors of terror climbing up my spine. I don’t want to say her name, don’t want to see her clear blue eyes and long blond braid because if I do, I know I will come apart but she comes to me anyway. Soon, I am curled up on my side, sobbing. I realize how unforgivably selfish I’d been - at that moment, I’d acted out of desperation for Peeta’s survival, reacting to the unbearable loss when I felt his life slipping away. I’d been so ready to follow him if he died that I never once gave a thought to the consequences if I was successful at saving all of us.

I lay there for a long time, immobilized by the sedative and my grief. Nurses come and go, tending to me, poking me. They bring me food, which I try to eat but swallowing becomes a monumental effort so I let them take away the trays the way they came. There are moments of fitful sleep consumed by fears made manifest - nightmare visions of trees burning and lightning strikes. A boot emerging from a clump of bushes. A blond child on fire. I wake from these visions emptier than when my eyes first closed until a paralyzing immobility slowly takes over me. I don’t know how the time passes and there is no sign of anyone that I know. I’ve been plunged into a white solitude interrupted only by the scrambling of nurses like bleached scuttle bugs over barren rocks. When desperation threatens to send me down into that opaque terror, I think of Peeta lying quietly somewhere; healing, alive. _Alive_. It is so much more than I could have hoped for and it is this thought that distracts me from the hopeless plight of my family.

And so the pendulum swings from hope to desperation and back again until I hear the door of my hospital room open. Thinking it is just the umpteenth visit from one of the nurses, I don’t bother to turn around. Gentle fingers come to rest on my shoulder, pulling me with their rugged tenderness, the smell of home assaulting my senses. I know before I am able to believe who is at my side. Ignoring the residual nausea, I fling myself into his arms.

“Gale!” I sob into his strong shoulder. I pull back, running my hands over his angular features as if convincing myself of the truth of his existence. He is burned on one side of his face and I pull back to see that he is dirty in a way that even the coal dust cannot render a person. His arm is in a sling and he is bandaged around his torso. The ebony hair that is so like mine is matted in places with dirt and grime. The premonition of earlier today seizes me, demanding to be acknowledged because if Gale is here, something terrible must have happened back home.

“Catnip.” He smiles tiredly at me, a sadness pulling at the corners of his fine grey eyes.

Her name finally surges out of me because despite the incredible pain that awaits, I have to know. “Prim?”

“Your mother and Prim are both alive. I got them out in time,” he says.

I exhale the breath I’ve been holding since I arrived here.  “They’re not in District Twelve?” I ask.

“No.   Without any warning, the planes just started coming, dropping bombs everywhere. You remember what happened to the Hob.”

I nod, sickened by the implications but unable to articulate what I know to be true. I remember the charred cinders, coal dust like so many more explosives to assist in the Capitol’s destruction. District 12 burning.  People burning.

“Peeta’s family?”

Gale’s face hardens but only just before he recovers himself “Only the middle one. Rye. Happened to be with some girl on the slag heap…” he shakes his head derisively. “The Merchant Quarter was the first to get hit. No one made it out alive.”

I want to block out the terrible anguish that I know awaits Peeta when he finally emerges from his coma.  The pieces of me that I’d been holding together begin to dissolve and suddenly, I am not Katniss Everdeen any longer.  I’m a mass of slowly erupting terror and grief and I want nothing more than to run into the nearest cupboard and shut the door against everything I hate and love.  Because if District 12 burns, it burns because of me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, putting my arms up around my head to keep out the inevitable.

“Katniss…” says Gale in a broken, pleading voice.

I shake my head, not wanting to know. He gently pulls my arms down because Gale doesn’t lie. He’s the only one I can count on to tell me the truth. No matter how much it destroys me, he won’t keep it from me.

“There is no more District 12.” and it is not a statement, but a suffocated sob.

His voice crumbling in pain is the last sound I hear before the black fog of unconsciousness overtakes me.

  **ing up.  It is really encouraging when you leave a message, even if there is something I need to change.  So don’t be shy !**

 


	6. Certainty

 

I don’t want to wake up.  Even when I finally regain conscious, I don’t open my eyes.  Moments or years pass but I do not want to face a world in which District 12 has been destroyed because of me.   I don’t want to inhabit a reality that contains the firebombing of my home, the annihilation of Peeta’s family, or displaced refugees in District 13. The wail that has been burning in my chest insists on being released and it begins, first as a whimper and then a moan – a low, bestial sound that rises in pitch and soon fills the room, the halls, all of District 13, maybe even reaching as far as the Capitol itself.  It breaks my lips like a torrent of lava and I’m screaming, my back arching against the agony of so much death.  It won’t be repressed and the liberation of so much anguish continues to reverberate in my ears even after numerous hands descend on me, against which I thrash and buckle.  After several minutes of futile struggling, I feel the pinch in my arm that pushes me back into the inky blackness again.

**  
  
**

**XXXXX**

**  
  
**

The next time I emerge, there is a heavy weight inside my chest.  My body has woken to the horror of my life before my mind has.  My heart clenches tightly as I recall the events that have brought me here - Peeta’s shattered skull, Gale’s burnt face, the image of the inferno that destroys so much human flesh and I can no longer breathe.  It gets so bad that I’m gasping and gulping in air that seems to have evaporated and I start to claw at my neck.  The feeling of panic overwhelms me, every nerve in my body humming as if preparing to carry me out of this room.  I attempt to sit up and remember my head at the last minute, the world spinning in response.  Vomit bubbles up through my throat and explodes onto my bed; a warm, acrid pool soaking through the hospital sheets.

**  
  
**

**XXXXX**

  


When I finally resurface completely, I am restrained to the bed.  My head has rolled to the side and I open to the capsized vision of Haymitch sitting in a nearby chair.  His fingers are steepled before his mouth, a bandage covering one eye and the left side of his face.  He stares at me almost unblinkingly with his one uncovered eye.  I want to ask him how long he has been sitting there but the urge disappears under a thick blanket of loathing.  I want to turn away from him but that would be handing him too much power over me so I stare back at him with the same intensity, daring him to speak.

“Katniss…” he begins.

I swallow instinctively, my mouth dry and empty of saliva.  “Die.” I whisper.

His eye widens a moment but resumes its steady gaze.  “I already have,” he states in such a matter-of-fact way.

“You…should have… let me die, too,” I slur, my mouth unable to hold words.

“You know now that was never an option.” He lowers his hands so that his speech is not muffled.  “I’m still your mentor.  But you have to get the bug out of your ass first so I can help you.”

His audacity gives me strength and I turn my head, releasing a gasp of dry, mirthless laughter.   “Go.. to hell.”

“Been there.  Let’s just get this over with.”  He lowers his elbows to his knees, leaning forward.  “There are bigger things here than any one of us.  We couldn’t risk you and Peeta knowing what was happening because too much went into planning things and too many lives were at stake.”

I sat stone silent, feeling pig-headed and obstinate.  Being pissed with Haymitch is the only thing that feels good to me at the moment.

“And yes, some Victors had to be sacrificed to get you out,”  he pauses.  “They all went in there knowing that could be the cost.”

“Except for Peeta and I,” I murmur.

“Except you and Peeta,” he repeats. “Look, let’s just cut the bullshit.  The second you pulled those berries out, everything stopped being about just you and Peeta.  I was no longer able to make decisions based on your individual survival.” I let my head drop to the side to study him.  His eyes are haunted and his face haggard.  I almost want to believe he has suffered something from all of this.  Almost.  “There is also the bigger concern of you both being captured.  You don’t even want to imagine what they would have done to you or Peeta if they had gotten their hands on you.  They would have used one against the other and done everything in their power to break you.”

I shivered at those words.  I had a vivid vision of a captured and tortured Peeta that was so powerful, it was as if I were looking into the window of another life.  The horror of it made me want to howl in pain again. It would have been so easy for the Capitol to destroy me, to reduce me to crawling into dark spaces, take away all of my courage until I could no longer function.  My breath hitched when I consider how easily this could have happened and I shivered as the ghost of that other life had passed through me.

“You can be as indignant as you like about all of this but in the meantime, Panem is in full revolt and we might just see an end to the Capitol's oppression.    I don’t apologize for keeping you and Peeta in the dark.  I also don’t apologize if your autonomy as individuals was set aside for the greater good and the success of this revolution.”  Haymitch took a deep breath.  “However, I repeat, I am still your mentor.  This is a new situation but I will be as honest as I am allowed to be.”  He sits back, observing the effect his words have on me.

He is promising me nothing new.  He was as honest as he was allowed to be before the Quarter Quell also.  He had lied to me and I know he would do it again if he had to. I would need time to process all the information he’s given me so instead I say, “You..can help me, right?”  He looks at me warily at the abrupt change in conversation before nodding.

“Bring me…mom and Prim; and then,” I gulp as my heart lurches in my chest, “And...Peeta.  I need..to see him.”

Haymitch leans back into his chair and simply nods, his face unreadable.

**  
  
**

**XXXXX**

 

I drift in and out of sleep and at one point, my restraints are finally removed.  A moment comes when I am able to sit up without feeling the after-effects of the sedative and the sense of elation that brings is indescribable – trapped as I have been by my own body, but the feeling is short-lived given the circumstances.  I am able to eat, though the food is rationed and tastes terribly bland.  A bath follows which brings another elusive feeling of joy at my regained independence.

When I am dressed, I move about my room like a caged animal.  I still can’t think of District 12 without a shard of ice slicing through my chest. But I’m anxious to leave this bird cage and find my sister and mother – if only I knew where to look!  I’m not even sure what is outside these four walls but whatever it is, I need to see it.  With my resolution firmly in place, I walk towards the door but as I reach for the handle, the door sweeps inward and the most beautiful vision I’d ever seen in my life greets my eyes.  Her small body is in my arms within moments, the loose strands of her blond braid tickling my nose.  If there is anything that can bring me back home without hesitation, it’s Prim, with her little girl’s smell, pale skin and powder-blue eyes.  Thinking of home makes a deep fissure open in me and soon her hair was bathed in my tears.  I can try to be as strong as I like, I will never be strong enough for this.

“Katniss!” she whispers into my chest as she squeezes me to her.

I just shake my head, unable to speak and simply hold onto her.

“You’re suffocating me!” she says between a gasp and a laugh.

I release her and look into her smiling face, the ball of tension that I’ve been carrying around inside of me unraveling like a spool of thread.  Over her shoulder, I see my mother, hand over her mouth, attempting to repress her own feelings.

“Mom.” I whisper, extending my arm, into which she walks.  I’m clasping her to me and for a moment, all the rage and resentment that I’ve harbored towards her since my father died unspools also.  The way that we hold on to each other, it is hard to know who is the comforter and who is most in need of comforting.

After a bit, it is Prim who breaks the spell.  “Are you better now?  Dr. Aurelius told us you had a concussion.”

I smile at her, wiping the moisture from my now puffy face.  “Yeah, much better, especially without the sedatives.  They’re awful.”  She is still my little sister and yet she has changed.  There is something more angular about her face, less baby-like.  It saddens me that the last year would have aged her and taken her deeper into adulthood than under normal circumstances.  She would not be my little duck much longer.

We sit on my bed, my hands never letting go of either of them as Prim tells me how everything happened.  “One minute, we were watching you shoot an arrow over the arena when everything went black, next thing we know, the sky over 12 is full of hovercrafts.” She shivers as she tells me this and the trauma of seeing these things is visible in her eyes. I squeeze her hand gently to give her courage, which she returns with a soft squeeze of her own.

“So there we were, sitting at our kitchen table, with a dead television and I had this awful feeling.  There was no explanation for it and then…” her voice trails off and I can almost hear her heart pounding in her chest.   She describes the hail of fire, the explosions, Gale and the men of the Seam raising the warning.  She is present at the tearing down of the electric fence and Gale who tries to contain the chaos and desperation as he leads the survivors out into the woods, towards the meadow and the lake.  Prim and mother set up triage, relying on the herbs they find nearby.  

He was indispensable – the only one who knew those woods better than I.  And those three long, terrifying days - Gale fighting to keep a group of people who were so good at being hungry from finally succumbing.  He had two sets of bows and arrows, one hunting knife, one fishing net, and over eight hundred terrified people to feed - he managed to keep them alive until the District 13 hovercrafts came to pick up the refugees.  And all the while, District 12 burned, a hideous gray cloud of human ash over the place we once called our home.

Silence falls on us when Prim is done.  I’m empty again, beyond shock and grief, a gaping black hole yawning open in the pit of my stomach.  I have nothing for so much suffering and it is possible I’ve finally reached the limits of comprehending my grief, that the elastic is so far stretched, it would finally snap.  In an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, Prim begins to describe the rooms we were assigned – every refugee has a room in this giant District.  All the quarters are underground and almost identical to one another.  The same thing is true for the uniforms that everyone wears.  It is the complete opposite of Capitol decadence.

My mother sits by quietly, letting Prim race ahead with her explanations as she looks at me with fixed eyes, not the passive gaze of the waifish mom I know, but with the eye of a healer.  I can tell she wants to question me but Prim’s continuous chatter kept her from speaking her mind.  Finally, I place a hand on Prim’s leg, which has the effect of quieting her while I hold my mother’s gaze.  I have a premonition of what she will eventually speak to me about and I feel vaguely nauseous at the idea of it.

 

“Katniss,” she pauses gently, surprising me with the feeling in her voice.  “Haymitch said we should take you to see Peeta.  The on-duty nurse outside will show us where to go.  He told us about the surgery.”  There is something else but it would have to wait.  It is a conversation that could not involve my sister.  “Are you ready?”

I breathe raggedly as my heart lurches explosively in my chest.  Shuffling off the bed as quickly as I can, I walk without another word towards the door.

**  
  
**

**XXXXX**

 

The recovery ward, as it is called, is not far from my own room.  I take in my fill of District 13 – the rooms I peek into as I walk are as sterile and white as most hospital rooms but I walk past walls that looked like the interior of a factory.  Everything was shiny and smooth – even the ceiling, with embedded lights blaring down on us, was an uninterrupted line.  The monotony makes me shiver.

The nurse leads us to a set of double doors which have no handles.  Next to the door is a large number pad and what looks like a giant black button. Instead of punching numbers into the keypad, the nurse pulls out a small card and swipes it in front of the black spot, causing the doors to swish open.  What greets us is another large room with a u-shaped counter in the middle, set with monitors and beeping machines.  Along the curve of the wall around the open area are doors while in the middle of the counter sits a pale, blond-haired nurse studying one monitor and making notes on a notepad.

I feel intimidated by the sterility, the brisk efficiency and utter lack of human warmth of this ward.  Prim clings to my hand on one side while my mother watches the nurses quietly, as if to memorize every detail of their practice.  This could have been her if we had not been so oppressed by the Capitol and the open longing and curiosity in her face is so painful to watch, I turn my attention to the nurse instead.

“I…ah…well…is Peeta Mellark’s room nearby?” I stutter.

The nurse nods.  “Yes, Ms. Everdeen.  We’ve been expecting you.  This way.”

I grasp Prim’s and my mother’s hand, steadying myself as I follow the nurse to the door just adjacent to the opening of the counter.  When she opens the door to the room, I am not surprised to find him largely as I had last seen him – a large bandage over his wounded head, intubation tube in this throat.  What makes me ill is the sight of his head, the golden locks I’d run my hands through a few short days ago now gone, shaved off, no doubt, for his surgery.  It makes him look frailer.  I let my eyes take in his face, the unnatural scowl from the tube, the lids that I know hide the most striking blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my short, miserable life.  Taking a deep breath, I reach out to touch his hand, careful to not disrupt the IV tube that is embedded deep in his vein.  So cold, I bring my lips down to his hand  and kiss it gently, instinctively blowing hot air from my lips to warm the small patch of skin.

Prim looks at Peeta and then at me.  “He’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.  Right mom?” she turns to our mother who has been quietly circulating the gurney, studying the IV, the readouts from the machines and eventually, Peeta’s bandages.

“Yes, of that I have no doubt.” She gives me a lingering look that speaks to me again and I drop my eyes to Peeta.

I hold myself together by gripping my sister’s shoulder, feeling her very warm skin through the fabric of the grey jumper she had clearly been assigned when she came to District 13.  I run my free hand over his arm.  At least here, there is the soft down of his golden hair and I revel in the feel of it.  My fingers trace a vein that travels from the bruised puncture of the IV up his forearm and emerges onto his bicep up to his shoulder.  He wears nothing but the hospital blankets which only serves to increase his vulnerability in my eyes.  I can’t resist any longer and, releasing Prim, I lower my head to place a kiss on his forehead, turning my face so my cheek is resting on it for a moment.

“Rest, Peeta.  I’m waiting for you.” I whisper, my stomach in knots for what awaits him.

I linger this way until I am distracted by the swish of the doors to the recovery unit.  I lift my eyes to see who has arrived and I gasp loudly.  For a moment, all I see is Peeta and my heart gives an involuntary leap of joy before my eyes refocus, observing instead that while the resemblance is strong, this is not my Peeta.  The man before me is stocky like him but slightly taller.  It is clear he is older than Peeta but he still has the brilliant eyes and golden hair a few shades darker than his younger brother.

“Rye?” says Prim in recognition.

He doesn’t respond right away, his eyes holding mine with a steady, cold gaze.  If I didn’t know any better, I could almost see them glitter with an intensity whose source is unclear.  Before I can resolve the feeling I see there, he is turning his attention to Prim, where his face changes and he becomes a different person.

“We came to see Peeta,” she says.

He looks at her with genuine gratitude.  “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

Mom steps towards him and takes his hand.  “Our deepest condolences for your loss.  We are here to help you in whatever way we can.  Peeta is practically family and now so are you, dear.”  She shakes her head and, finding no other words to say, places a kiss on his cheek, which he accepts with closed eyes.  Prim and I follow suit.   His grief is so naked, it pulls at my heart because soon it will be Peeta’s.

After a moment, my mother asks “How is he?”

He takes a deep breath to steady himself.  “He’s been healing well.  They are going to take him off of the IV soon so he can come out of his coma.  The doctors seem pretty optimistic about him.” He finishes with a whisper.  I imagine him alone in this strange place, his family wiped out, his brother laying in a gurney, healing from a mortal wound and I am moved by my pity for him.

“You’re worried about him when he wakes up, aren’t you?” I say almost in a whisper.

He gives me a cold, appraising look before his face softens.  “How am I going to tell him what happened?   What if it sets him back?  Damn!”  He turns abruptly, running his hands through his hair, making the thick curls stand on end.

I move slowly towards him and try to catch his focus without touching him.  “Hey.  We can  tell him together.  You don’t have to do everything alone.”

“You?” he almost sneers, and when his eyes turn towards me, they are an intimidating mixture of pain and anger and it takes me completely by surprise.  “You’re the reason he’s here!  Why are you even pretending that you love him?  There aren’t any cameras around!” His vehemence takes me completely by surprise, the boom of his voice startling even the nurse.

“Please lower your voice or you’ll have to leave.” she says sternly.

I ignore her as I reply “What do you know about Peeta and me?” My anger rises above my compassion and grief. Prim takes my arm and gently tugs me towards her, as if to make me leave but I won’t budge.  It’s invigorating to feel something other than grief.

“I know that you ignored him the minute you got back from the first Games.  Then, when you had to do the Victory Tour, you were all over him again and then you were back to not giving a shit about him when you were in 12.  Quarter Quell comes along and you become all lovey-dovey again.  You don’t need to fake it anymore.  There isn’t anybody watching.”

“You don’t know anything, Rye, and it’s best you keep your opinions to yourself.   You have no idea how Peeta and I feel about each other.  And I promise you, I will come and go exactly as I please,” I snarl back at him.

“I know how Peeta feels about you!  He’s been a walking sap since the first Games while you were too busy blowing him off.”  Rye got within an inch of my face, causing my mother to move to his side and take hold of his arm.   “He is all I’ve got now and I’ll be damned if I let you hurt him again!  You listening to me, Girl on Fire?” He positively spits out the nickname.  “I don’t care if you fucked him on the beach, I will make your life miserable!”

I can  feel Prim tense next to me and even some of Rye’s own rage drains from him when he realizes what he said.  In that instant of hesitation, I slap him so hard, the sound echoes throughout the ward.  Now the arguing begins as mom pulls Rye back while Prim tries to keep me from lunging at him, the nurse pressing a button on her panel while she races to hold me from the other side.  Guards appear out of nowhere and soon I am being dragged back to my room.  When I’m inside the locked door, I’m so mad I kick the metal stand used to hold my meals.

And yet, from Rye’s point of view, I had behaved reprehensibly towards Peeta, especially after the Games.  I broke contact completely with him.  How to make people understand that it wasn’t Peeta I was rejecting but the Capitol’s expectations for us?  That I was trying to reclaim something of who I was before the Games and I knew I couldn’t accomplish that if I had to also mind Peeta’s claim on me?  I could have been his friend – I am sorry I didn’t try to do that then – but I was entitled to my self-preservation as well.  No one who has not been in the Games can understand what that means.  The fact that I am even justifying this to myself makes me even angrier.

I pace my room again, frustrated that I can’t express my rage.  After about an hour, I become tired and sit on the bed.  Soon, the door opens to my room and my mother peeks her head inside.

“Can I come in?” she asks timidly, which is annoying in itself.  She was my mother, for goodness sake.

“Of course.” I respond tersely.

She sits down carefully next to me on the bed.  “I think I’ve settled Rye down,”  she says.  “He will be apologizing to you tomorrow.”  She sits quietly for another moment, watching me, perhaps judging my mood.

“Katniss,” she begins and my stomach clenches in response. “I’m not going to impose myself on you. You’ve been taking care of yourself for a long time so I won’t insult your intelligence by trying to “baby” you.  I’m talking to you as one woman to another.”  She pauses, gathering perhaps her courage – mom was never bold unless she was elbow-deep in someone else’s blood.  “You and Peeta, in the arena – something’s changed, hasn’t it?”

I drop my eyes in embarrassment.  “Yes.” I whisper.

She carefully takes my hand.  “You see, I can’t even imagine that moment on that beach, believing perhaps that your life is over, determined to protect Peeta and maybe being overwhelmed by your feelings all at once.  That’s okay and don’t ever let anyone judge you differently.” She pats my hand at this.  “It was the same way with your father.  I just one day up and realized I couldn’t live without him and I was right.” At that moment, she seemed transported to another time and the half-smile on her face hinted at her incredible, paralyzing love for my father.

“But I had my certainty.  I knew, down to my bones, that I needed that man to be my husband, that I would never be happy again if I didn’t bind my life up with his.  I’m almost certain Peeta feels that way towards you – he has never wavered on this.”  She pulls my chin up to look at her.  “But I fear for you.  I fear that you do not have that same certainty.  You have given yourself to him in such a public way, you cannot be distressed when he comes to you with the expectation that there will be more from you.”

I feel an anger boil up in me that binds itself with my previous rage, making me almost blind. I know I have to calm myself - this is her job, after all.  She doubts me - doubts my sincerity after everything. Of all the things I did in that Arena, being with Peeta in that way had been as easy as breathing.  

Sensing my mood, she straightens her back, readying herself for my reaction.  “Mom, do you think I would have done that if I didn’t think my feelings were real?  Do I have to prove myself to everyone?”  I almost slam my fist into the mattress in frustration.  

“I don’t mean to doubt you. But there are hard times coming.  You will be called on to do things you never thought you’d have to do.  You need to be sure - of yourself, your loyalty and your feelings.”  I avert my eyes at this.  “Katniss!  You made love to the boy in front of an entire country!  It was rash and impulsive and completely understandable. But you have got to be prepared for the consequences because you did not die in that Arena.” She becomes agitated as she says this.  “You don’t have to prove anything to me or Rye or even Peeta.  You have to prove it to yourself.  I haven’t been much of a mother to you and Prim but you are still my daughter and I will worry about you whether you like it or not.”  

I desperately hope she is finished but I have no such luck.  “There is also the matter of protection.  I don’t think birth control was part of the prep team’s routine, considering you were supposed to be carrying his baby already.”

Here I feel the blood drain from my face.  “No, you don’t think, after one time…”

“Katniss, I won’t try to fool you.  It is a small chance but there is a chance nonetheless.  You have to admit the possibility…”

“No, it’s impossible.  It has to be!” I leap off of the bed and stand before her, my fists clenched, my mind struggling to reject what she has just said.  “There’s no way!  It was my first time!”

My mother shakes her head at me and I know that she will not play into my denial.  “You need to consider it.  As soon as we are settled into our rooms, I will examine you myself.”  I raise my hands to each side of my head, trying to still my emerging tremors.  My mother takes my hands and lowers them, forcing me to look at her.  “No, Katniss, you have to prepare yourself for the possibility, however remote.  It can change everything.”

I’m left speechless and for a while, my mother leaves me to my thoughts. After a time, I let my mother lead me like an errant child to our new quarters to await what may come.

 

**XXXXX**

**  
  
**

Italicized words represent direct quotes from Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins.

  
  


 


	7. Raized to the Ground

 

 

The room that we’ve been assigned does not disappoint, with its bland colors and pristine lines.  There are lines everywhere here, all geometric shapes and angles so sharp, you feel you can cut yourself just by looking at them.  Mother and Prim escaped the firebombing of 12 with only the clothes on their backs so the room is bereft of anything personal.  However, on my bed awaits a small box.

  


Sitting down, I search the contents inside and find the spile that Haymitch sent me in the Quarter Quell Arena.  There is also Peeta’s locket, and the pearl he’d given me that night on the beach.   I bring it to my lips and feel the cool kiss of its owner as if he were with me right at that moment.  There is no way of knowing but I am almost positive this is Haymitch’s doing and almost want to accept the offering but I am still too raw, too sliced open to cross that chasm and be the good, forgiving person.  The Games had changed a lot about me but I’m still not the forgiving kind.

 

My mother’s voice ends my ruminations. “Prim has been spending the last two days with the medical teams.  We’ll have privacy.”

  


“Right.” I say, heaving myself up.  “So now what?”  My stomach is somewhere in my throat at the idea of my mother finding a baby inside of me,  like the pearl Peeta found on the beach – unexpected, against every probability.

  


She sits me down in a chair, “I’m going to examine you – the old fashioned way.  Because it’s only been a few days, I might not be able to see changes in you.” her dusty blue eyes have become all business as she proceeds with her pushing and prodding on my breasts and my stomach, making me squirm at times as she goes through her mental check-list.  Finally, she asks me to lie down and I am not particularly enthusiastic about this examination but I am harboring the fantasy that she will take a peek inside to find everything in its place, no extra beings in there, thank you.

  


After what had to be the most awkward examination in the history of examinations, my mother instructs me to dress again.

  


“Inconclusive.” she says.  “It’s probably too soon to tell.”

  


“So, am I okay?  Should I worry?” I asked.  “I mean, wouldn’t the medics have caught that when they treated me?”

  


She looks off into the wall, pondering my question.  “Not necessarily.  It could have just been too soon but I’m not familiar with their technology.”  She looks back at me.  “We’ll check in two weeks just to make sure.  You could just ask for a pregnancy test.  They have those for sure.”

  


I considered this for a moment.  “Mom, I don’t know how I feel about all of that.  I mean, they fished me out of the arena and now I’m in a District that should not have existed.”  I look down at my hands.

  


“You don’t know who to trust.” She says.

  


I nod my head.

  


“Well, nothing is going to change within the next two weeks so we’ll check again.  I don’t want to give you false comfort but the chances seem pretty slim, from what I’ve seen.”

  


I lean back on the pillows, somewhat relieved.  “I guess I won’t worry about it right now.” I laugh ruefully.  “I’m so banged up, nothing is going to grow inside of me.”   I don’t know why, but saying this fills me with melancholy. I am barren and empty on so many levels.  All the fighting, the deaths I’ve witnessed, the shock and trauma – I imagine a razed field where once green trees are replaced by husks of ashy, burnt out trunks.  Where flowers and meadows could grow up, there is instead Peeta lying in perhaps more desolation than me and the sun sets on my fragile optimism.  I curl up on my side to consider this image, wallowing in my bleakness.  My mother, the expert in all things dark and vacuous, leaves me to my brooding, dimming the lights as she closes the door of the room.

 

**XXXXX**

 

I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until the click of the opening door alerts all of my senses and I wake in tension.   The steps are stealthy but the hunter in me is healing and well-rested and there is no way he will catch me by surprise.

  


“Gale.”

  


“Damn, you’re good, Catnip.” He chuckles, the mattress giving way under his weight.  I roll onto my back and am startled by what I see.  He is not dirty and bandaged as he was when I first saw him.  His olive skin is smooth and clean, a small piece of gauze still over his left cheek.  His hair is cut in a short, flattering style and he is not dressed in the tatters that pass for clothing in District 12 but a military uniform.  A blinking light on his wrist catches my attention, like a magpie mesmerized by the strange glint of a diamond ring.  I take his wrist and examine the band carefully.

  


“What’s this get-up?” I ask abruptly but a warm tenderness flits through me and causes me to put his hand up to my cheek.  This thumb runs the length of my cheekbone and I sink in the comfort of his warmth, one of the birds I’d set free returning to me.

  


“You can call me Commander Hawthorne.  I’ve got an honorary command something-or-the-other.” He said matter-of-factly.

  


“Because you’re a hero, Gale.”

 

“Anyone would have done the same thing in my place.” He demurs.

  


“No, not everyone would have done the same thing.  Not everyone can hunt or knows those woods the way you do and not everyone would have had your quick thinking.” I say with vehemence.

  


Gale just nods, a small smile dancing at the corner of his mouth.  “Well, if you think I’m a hero, that can’t be a bad thing.” He flicks my nose as he says this.

  


Something about the way he looks at me makes me blush but I ignore the feeling and suddenly become very serious.  “What are they like, the people here in District 13?”

  


He chuckled again, dropping his hand from my face.  “Orderly.  Very orderly.  Everything is on a schedule.” He pulled up his sleeve.  “We get an imprint of our schedule each morning and are expected to follow it, even for meal times.  District 12 folks get a little leeway because you know what a mess we are.  We don’t do anything on time.  We have to be ‘acclimated’ or whatever the hell that means.” He shakes his head but a sadness creeps over him, taking the edge from his humor.

  


“How many, Gale?” I ask suddenly. “How many were killed?”

  


He takes a deep breath.  “It’s easier to talk about how many were _not_ killed.  835 survivors and we lost two yesterday from severe injuries and malnutrition.”  He scratches at an imaginary spot on the mattress and I suddenly sit up, throwing my arms around him.

  


He grips me, like a person holds on to tether dangling over a deep chasm.  “I hate them, Katniss.  Every one of them.”  He tightens his arms reflexively.  “I would kill every Capitol citizen, every single last excuse for human beings in that infernal place.”  He pulls back, searching my face.  “The Districts are in full revolt and I’m going join the fight.  Every able-bodied person from District 12 aged 14 and older is a soldier for the rebellion.  We start training tomorrow and I’m going to fight.”

  


I shake my head at him.  He doesn’t know – can’t possibly understand the soul-destroying acts he is signing up for. “Gale, you don’t know what it’s like to kill a person.  It sounds really heroic in theory but it changes you.”

  


Gale stiffens as I speak.  “Just because I wasn’t in the Arena with you, doesn’t mean that I don’t know how to fight.  And I don’t care about killing people.  Not over this.  The Capitol has to go down.  They wiped our entire people off the face of the earth.  I can’t just stand by and let that happen!” His silver eyes suddenly blazed in white, hot anger.

  


I put my hands up in acquiescence. "Okay, okay.  I guess we’re all rebels now so it doesn’t matter.”  I lapse into my own insulated silence, unable to ignore the rage that is boiling in my belly despite my aversion to death. I’d seen too much to be easy with either gratuitous death or the oppression that leads to it.  There is also a fear that freezes me when I think of my best friend in the middle of brutal fighting and endless bloodshed.

  


“Catnip, Command wants to speak to you as soon as you are up to it.  It’s important.” He says with some urgency.

  


“Why?” I ask warily.

  


“I don’t know exactly what it is about but I have clearance to attend most Command meetings so I will be with you.  It’s probably about the fact that you are the Mockingjay.” He says carefully.

  


“I never asked to be the Mockingjay.  I don’t want it.” I say resolutely.

  


“Whether you like it or not, for people out there, you _are_ the Mockingjay.  Anyway, it’s your decision but I should try to get you up there as soon as possible.” He stands up.

I consider the implications for a moment.  It has never boded well for me when the powers that be took an interest in me.  However, there was the matter of District 12 and tendrils of anguish and horror thread through my body, fed by the fury of knowing that my district is now a smoking pile of ash.  And I understand anger above all else, know that it will give me courage and strength.  And so, steeling myself, I nod to Gale.

  


“Let’s go meet with Command.”

  


**XXXXX**

  


Gale’s wrist band, which he calls a communicuff, is actually more than a fancy, blinking display.  He gives the room number of the meeting based on his schedule and a feminine robotic voice tells him where to turn and how far he must walk.  The hallways are indistinguishable from one another but I perceive an organizational pattern based on letters, numbers and colors.  From what little I’ve seen so far, District 13 is an underground cylinder, with movements possible in both lateral and vertical directions.  If there are adjacent cylinders or structures, I have no way of knowing as there is a sense of vastness that defies my ability to define it.

  


While I am considering the dimensions of my physical environment, Gale has come to a full stop before a set of sliding metal doors.  He passes his communicuff in front of a black square on the wall, the red dot blinking green before the doors slide open.  Inside is a large conference table surrounded by electronic displays and counters covered with beeping monitors.  A cartography wall features a map of Panem emerging in three dimensions, every hill, valley or mountain depicted in scale.  There are different kinds of objects appended to its surface, possibly representing troops and supplies.  I take my eyes off of the technology to look at the conference table where many familiar faces are seated in hushed discussion with one person or another.  At the far end Haymitch is engrossed in a discussion with Plutarch Heavensbee.  Next to him is Plutarch’s assistant, Fulvia Cardew.  On the other side of the grey oval-shaped table is Finnick, who appears to be wringing the life out of a short piece of rope.  When he perceives my entrance, his pale face brightens and he pulls out a chair next to him for me to sit in.  Gale takes the seat just on the other side of that one.  As I am settling in, I glance over at Johanna, who is scowling at everyone, the air of a person who would rather be anywhere else but here.  At the other end of the conference table, near the head are several very buff looking military people, engrossed in a panel in front of them, none of them speaking to any of us in the room.

  


I cast a glance back at Haymitch and take in his appearance.  He seems even more haggard than usual and twitchy, as if he were fighting off a bad cold.  He has a glass next to him, from which he sips nervously, grimacing each time he swallows.  Finnick’s voice next to me interrupts my thinking.

  


“He’s not taking detox very well.” He mutters.

  


“Detox?” I ask?

  


“Yeah.  In District 13, alcohol, caffeine and relaxants are controlled substances.  So you can’t get drunk, high or stoned.  Haymitch is in the process of drying out and it isn’t pretty.” He chuckles darkly.

  


I glance over at Finnick and see the dark circles under his eyes.  “What about you?” I ask quietly.

 

He gives an insincere smile and looks down at his knots, working them furiously. “Oh well, you know.  Guess things could be better.” His voice shakes and he takes a deep breath to control himself.

  


Johanna, who has been watching us intently, leans across the table towards Finnick.  “If you would do what I tell you, you’d get better a whole lot faster,” she hisses, leaning back to twirl a pen in her hand.  She takes a look at me and then lets her eyes run the length of Gale slowly, appraising every inch of him.  She doesn’t hide the look of approval she gives him or the slow smile that spreads across her face.  “Hi, Gale Hawthorne.  Katniss has no manners but I’m Johanna Mason.”  I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes at her.

  


Gale smiles back politely.  “I know who you are.”

  


“You could know me better.” She practically purrs. I have to resist the urge to gag and thankfully, her embarrassing flirtation ends when a set of doors open and close at the end of the conference room. A striking woman of about fifty enters the room, exchanging a few words with an assistant nearby before having a seat.  She has straight _grey hair that falls in an unbroken sheet to her shoulders.  I’m somewhat fascinated by her hair, since it’s so uniform, so without a flaw, a wisp, even a split end_.  Her eyes are grey but not in the way that Gale and mine are, with their hints of blue sparkling deeply in their depths.  No, hers are characterized the absence of color, as if all the life had been drained out of them, like the color of dirty slush that you wish would melt away.

  


As soon as she is seated, the meeting comes to order.

  


There are the introductions and the reading of the agenda.  I am item three somewhere in the middle.  As the discussions of refugees, personnel movements and such take place, I am aware of the constant chattering of the others in the room.  But Alma Coin’s dull, lifeless eyes scans the room.  Watching the interlocutors.  Glancing at the monitors.  But most of all, she studies me. Boldly.  She studies me as one studies a wild beast, an unknown quantity, perhaps calculating how quickly to strike before the animal senses the approaching danger.  But I’m a hunter in a way she will never understand.  I’ve tracked deer, snuck up on birds more agile than her. I survived two Games and managed to bring others out of the Arena with me.  So I watch her in return, hold her icy gaze, willing her eyes to tell me the plan she holds for me.

  


The quiet stand-off ends when the group comes to item number three on the agenda.  Plutarch’s Capitol-accented tones interrupt my reverie.

  


“Many of the districts that have held their ground against the Capitol are benefitting from the surpluses that have resulted in the disruption of goods to the Capitol.  However, this situation is unsustainable in Districts 10 and 11 as a result of extensive damage to the infrastructure.  Those Districts have to be secured.  Districts 4 and 8 are in disarray,” here I see Finnick visibly tremble, his raw fingers threading and unthreading his knots compulsively.

  


“Other Districts are teetering on the edge of collapse.  As of now, we have a revolution that is simultaneous yet only somewhat coordinated.  However, it needs something to unify it, to make a cause that everyone, even the allies of the Capitol can get behind.

  


“In some way, our revolution already has face.”  Plutarch’s eyes fall on me, followed by everyone else’s in the room.  I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, never having quite gotten used to being the center of attention.

  


It is here that President Coin speaks.  “What Plutarch is proposing is that you, and eventually Peeta, when he is recovered become the faces of the Revolution.” She says succinctly.

  


Plutarch clears his throat.  “Yes.  We would design a series of propaganda shoots – or propos for short – to boost morale and show the successes of rebel campaigns.  These would then be broadcast throughout Panem.”

  


“Even if the rebellion is not exactly successful?” I interject.

  


Fulvia Cardew responds and I am drawn to her Capitol tattoos and her grating accent.  “Well, it is all in the way you package it.”

  


I cast a glance over at Gale, who simply raises an eyebrow at me.

  


Haymitch, meanwhile, has been boring holes into me, watching my every facial expression, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction from the impassive mask I’ve let fall over my features.  Despite the deep sense of betrayal I feel towards him, he is still one of the people who understands me the best.  I sense that he is waiting for me to make a move - not unlike a chess game - one that will put my opponents in check.

  


“I don’t know that I can make this decision without Peeta.” I hedge, knowing as I say it that it is the move that will gain the most time.

  


Plutarch looks visibly relieved – perhaps he was expecting an unequivocal negative from me.  

“Well, that is reasonable.  I understand from the recovery team that he is on the mend?”

  


President Coin looks down at her monitor and then over at me with some intensity.

  


“He is still in a coma but they will lift it as soon as they think he is strong enough.” I respond carefully, not removing my eyes from Coin.

  


“Would you be willing to begin training in the meantime?” she asks, still studying me.

  


“Yes.”

  


She looks back at the monitor before addressing me again.  “Very well, then. You will report to training tomorrow morning. This agenda item is complete.”  She glances at her monitor and pushes a button. “It would seem that Soldier Everdeen’s presence has been requested in Recovery Room 3.”

  


_Recovery Room? That could only mean one thing._

  


“The recovery team has brought Peeta out of his coma.”

  


**XXXXX**

  


I am out the door of Command before her sentence is even complete but freeze in the bland, empty corridor.   _Shit!  I don’t know where anything is!_  A hysteria starts to rise up in me and my breathing comes in bursts.  Just as I am about to wail in frustration, Gale is at my side.

 

“This way.” He says and we both break into a run, people jumping out of the way as we barrel down one identical corridor after another.  This is where I know that Gale understands me.  I could not have tolerated to walk and if I had had a motorized vehicle, I would have plowed down walls to get to Peeta faster.  Finally, we end up in an elevator which moves at such a slow rate, I’m ready to tug the braid off of my scalp.

  


I’m hopping from one leg to another, flexing and unflexing my fingers while Gale stares at an indiscriminate point on the metal wall of the elevator.  After an eternity, the doors swish open and soon we are in front of the double doors with the black square.  Gale swipes his comm-link in front of it.  As it opens, I make a mad dash towards the nurse’s station and don’t even wait for clearance when I burst into Peeta’s hospital room.  Rye, who was seated in a chair, gets to his feet but it is Peeta that draws my eyes like a magnet.  He is sitting up, a groggy look on his face.  There is still a bit of adhesive around his mouth from the breathing tube and it has left a red rectangle from where it pulled on his cheek.

  


My eyes cloud over with tears as I fling myself across the open space of the hospital room and hug him to me.  He is still cold, though they’ve had the decency to dress him in one of those idiotic, half-opened hospital gowns.   His gasp reminds me not to be too rough but I tremble as I shower him with wet kisses.  “You’re okay!  I thought you’d never wake up!” His shock does not deter me and I kiss his chapped lips, running my hands over his bald scalp and pale face to confirm the reality of his wholeness.  His face splits into a wide grin and he grabs hold of both my hands in his.

  


“Wow.” He whispers.  “Can you do that again?” he asks.

  


I smile.  “Do what?”

  


“Kiss me.  I enjoyed that very much.” He says with humor in his voice as he moistens his lips.

 

I bring my mouth down to his and give him a gentle kiss, lingering at the corners of his mouth first, then tugging gently at his bottom lip.  My lips curl into a sensuous smile as I take in his bemused expression and lower my head again to set my lips on his, my tongue prodding his mouth for access.  When his lips give way, I plunder his mouth, drinking in the taste of him.  A small groan escapes his throat and his arms wind their way around my waist, pulling me in towards him.  For the first time since I’ve arrived in District 13, I feel safe and there is something like joy and hope exploding in my chest.  When we are both breathless, I sit back on the bed and stare at him, hardly believing he is real.  I thread my fingers through his, refusing to let go now that he has come back to me.

  


“What the hell did I do to get that kind of reception from Katniss Everdeen?” he whispers with a kind of reverence, looking down at our interlocked fingers.

  


I’m taken aback by his question.  I look around to see a sardonic Rye and a very nauseous looking Gale staring down at me.  “What…What are you talking about?”

  


Rye levels a stare at me that makes my insides shrivel up.  “We’ll talk.  In the meantime,” he turns towards Peeta.  “you’ve had enough excitement for one day.  I’m going to talk to… _Katniss Everdeen_ here for a moment.”  He pats his brother’s hand.  “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  


Peeta just nods, a confused but somewhat happy grin on his face.  “Katniss?” he calls out.

I look back at him and melt at the warmth of his blue eyes.

  


“Come back soon, okay?” he responds.  “Something about you is very…familiar…” he lapses into a confused silence and gets visibly lost in his thoughts.

  


As Rye closes the door of the hospital room behind him, Dr. Aguilar approaches us.  Rye’s face barely registers his frustration at her arrival.

  


“How are you feeling, Katniss?” she asks cordially.

  


“Fine.” I shake my head.  “What’s going on with Peeta?” I ask.

  


Rye interjects.  “I don’t give her permission to be debriefed on my brother’s condition.  She is no relation to him.”

  


Gale gives him a murderous look and stands closer to me in a protective position.

  


Dr. Aguilar looks around her, possibly registering the sudden chill in the air.  “I’m sorry, but President Coin’s orders are that Katniss be fully appraised of Peeta’s condition.  And being his fiancé does grant her some privileges.” She says sternly.  Rye visibly backs down and fuming, returns to Peeta’s room.  Gale relaxes his tense stance and simply shakes his head at his exit.

 

“Katniss, remember when I told you that there was no way of knowing how Peeta might manifest his brain injury?”  I nod, my stomach clenching in fear.  “Well, it would seem Peeta is suffering from a form of retrograde amnesia.  He has forgotten significant events before his trauma, though he seems to be able to create and retain new information.”

  


My mind spins with this new information.  “What has he forgotten?”

  


Dr. Aguilar shakes her head.  “It’s hard to tell.  We spoke to him briefly when he woke.  He apparently has no recollection of the Games whatsoever and seemed shocked by the manner in which he incurred his injuries.  Normally, the older the memories, the less likely they are to be forgotten.  Therefore, when he we examined him, he was able to recall his family, that he is from District 12 and he is able to recognize people he has known all his life.  But everything from his first Reaping forward seems to be gone.”

  


Gale let out a deep breath.  “I guess that is good, in a way.  Those were probably bad memories for him.”  I look up when he says this, considering his words.  They were awful memories but in the middle of those memories is the story of us and though I know it is selfish of me, I am not relieved at the prospect that he might not remember me in that way.

  


“He remembers me.” I say with a small voice. “He called me by my full name.”

  


Dr. Aguilar gives me a sad look.  “I think he’s always known who you are.”

  


“But not who I am now.  Not to him.”  I whisper, shriveling up a bit more with each moment that passes.

  


“Hey, Catnip.  He seemed pretty happy to see you, though.” offered Gale weakly.

  


“Yeah, so you wake up in a strange place and all of a sudden a girl throws herself at you and basically makes out with you.  How would you feel?” I snap at him.

  


Gale laughs.  “Pretty overjoyed, to be honest.”

  


“Exactly.” I grouse.  “That has nothing to do with me.”

  


“You know, Katniss, it might be just the thing he needs to get his memory back.” suggests Dr. Aguilar.

  


I am poised to ask another question when a commotion from Peeta’s room interrupts our conversation.   Upon hearing the sounds of crashing and screaming, I leap into action, yanking the door open to see Rye half collapsed on the bed and Peeta on the ground with his prosthetic in his hand.

  


“Peeta!” I scream as I rush over to him.

  


“My leg! What happened to my leg!” he is shouting, the terror in his voice slicing through me.

  


“Damnit!  The prosthetic!” hisses Dr. Aguilar behind me.

  


I kneel next to him, taking his face in both of my hands. “Hey.  Calm down.  Listen to me. Okay?  Just listen.” I take the prosthetic from him and wrap my arms around him, cradling him to me.  Remarkably, he allows this.

  


“My leg is gone!  What the hell happened to my leg!?” he repeats maniacally,

  


“Shhhh.  Calm down and I’ll tell you everything.”  I look up to see Rye straightening up from the bed where he must have tried to catch Peeta before he fell.

  


“Get away from him!” he screams.  “It’s all your fault…” but Gale grabs his arm and easily maneuvers him out of the room.

  


Peeta is shaking in my arms, the sobs beginning to overwhelm him.  “This is all a nightmare!”

  


I drop my voice to a low murmur, bringing my lips to his ear. “I wish I could tell you it isn’t but things happened these last couple of years that…changed…us.  I’ll tell you everything but you have to be calm or else they’ll sedate you and trust me, that’s no fun.”  I look up at Dr. Aguilar for guidance, confused as to how much I should tell him.

  


“Let’s get you into bed first, okay?  Then, Katniss can share some of the things that you may have forgotten.” She turns toward me.  “But don’t overwhelm him.” She says pointedly.

  


Between us we manage to get him back onto the gurney.  Peeta stares at the space below the pinched skin of his thigh where his leg should have been as if willing the absent limb to appear.  I give him time to process this new reality, the minutes passing quietly until finally, he pulls the beds sheet over his leg.  When he looks at me, his eyes appear lost, the blue flashing with fear and it is all I can do to not pull him to me and kiss the bright glint of terror away.

  


“Katniss? Where’s the rest of my family?  Why is Rye the only one here with me?”

  


I freeze.  I don’t want to do this, don’t want to take this journey because I know that if losing his leg is a blow, the news of his family, of District 12 will annihilate him completely.  I search for Dr. Aguilar, quietly begging for help but she simply shrugs sadly, as if this was a tidal wave none of us would be able to stop.

  


“Peeta…” I whisper hoarsely, but it’s enough.

  


He looks from me to Dr. Aguilar, and then to Rye and Gale, who have returned to the room.  It is more like the sound of a strangled animal than a human voice.

  


“Rye?” he begs, as if trying to ward off the truth.

  


Rye’s face crumbles into a mask of pain so raw, tears spring to my eyes and despite his horrible treatment of me, I want to hug him because he is Peeta’s brother.  Because he is all that he has left.

  


“They’re gone, Peet.  We’re all that’s left.”

 

**XXXXX**

 

  


 


	8. Letting Go of Old Comforts

**_You must love even among the ruins…_ **

  * **_From Time by Yehuda Amichai_**



 

Peeta stares uncomprehendingly at his brother, then at me.  In fact, he searches every face in the room, perhaps trying to ascertain whether he has heard his brother correctly.

“I don’t…gone?  What...what do you mean?”  he shakes his head, his brow deeply furrowed in an effort to absorb this new piece of information.

Rye nods sadly at Peeta.  “District 12 was firebombed after the arena exploded.  Very few of us made it out.”

Peeta eyes fall everywhere, trying to grasp this new information.   “Firebombed?” he whispered.  “Arena?”  Suddenly he begins to gasp, his chest heaving with the effort to take in air and a machine off to the side to which he is still connected goes off, a harsh beeping penetrating the cloud of palpable shock that hangs in the room.  Dr. Aguilar springs into action, pulling what looks like a mask attached to a tube from the wall behind him and smashing a red button that sits just next to the spot where the tube connects to the wall.

“He’s hyperventilating and his blood pressure is off the charts.  If he doesn’t calm down, he’ll give himself a stroke.  Clear the room.”  We all stare dumbfounded at her.  “Now!” she orders, her voice brooking no argument as she presses another button.  Soon two nurses enter and herd Gale, Rye and me out of the room while Dr. Aguilar fits a mask over Peeta’s face. But I can’t leave and abandon him to his heartbreak.  I wrench my arm out of the grip of one of the nurses and fly to Peeta’s side on the other side of the doctor.  She swears angrily under her breath but I ignore her as I grasp Peeta by the shoulders.

“Peeta, breathe.  Just breathe.  Please.  I know it’s horrible and I’m sorry.”  Tears spring free from my eyes as he looks at me with eyes stretched wide with grief, his mouth open under the mask as he struggles noisily to capture air.  “Focus on me now.  Peeta…” I take both sides of his head and force him to look at me.  “Focus.”  I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, willing him to follow suit.  Tremors overtake him but he imitates my breathing – _in, out, in, out_ – in a hypnotic rhythm that soothes both of us.  Dr. Aguilar, who has prepared a syringe, sets it down carefully, watching vigilantly as, after several minutes, the beeping of the machine goes quiet and the only sound in the room is the simultaneous inhaling and exhaling of our breaths.

“That’s it.” I say quietly, tugging the oxygen mask off of his face as Peeta stares at me with eyes wide like saucers.  It is at this moment that he shatters, the tears breaking free and streaming unchecked down his face.  I pull him towards me, cradling his head in the crook of my neck.  His arms wind themselves around me and he grips me, heaving his grief into my hair.  I don’t know what else to do to make it easier for him so I murmur soothingly into his ear – meaningless things, crooning as his sobs break the air.  I cry with him, knowing something about this kind of bottomless grief, thinking back to my father and the day he failed to emerge with the other miners from the collapsed mine shaft.

I feel rather than see Rye come up next to me, his hand running gently over Peeta’s shaved head.  I pull back slowly as Peeta reaches his hand up and grips his brother’s so tightly, his knuckles become white.  I make to get up, to give them space for their grieving but Peeta does not release me right away.  Instead he looks mournfully at both Rye and me as if he would gain his clarity by staring at our faces.

“I need to know.” He whispers, his voice breaking.  “I need to know everything.”  Rye looks at the doctor inquisitively, seeking perhaps her guidance in this.

“I’m sure your brother and Katniss will fill you in but I really need for you to rest now.”  Peeta begins to protest but Dr. Aguilar is firm.   “Peeta, your system isn’t ready for all of this.  It’s too stressful and you’ve fought too hard to get stable to be set back.”  She pulls out a syringe and inserts it into the IV tube embedded in his hand. “You’ll rest for now.” She plunges the needle into the short tube, delivering the fluid that promises the relief of a dreamless sleep.  Peeta reclines in defeat, his face slowly smoothing out as the medicine begins to work its magic.

Rye and Dr. Aguilar speak but their voices are indistinct to me as I watch Peeta’s eyes lose focus.  He stares at me and I see the confusion in his eyes – Rye’s presence is no mystery but I am a quantity he cannot measure.

“What…is your story?” he says slowly.  “You never …spoke to me but here… you act as if…as if we have something…” he struggles against the sedative.  “Will you…tell me?” he begins to slur his words and as he sinks into unconsciousness, I watch him struggle, taking his urgent questions down with him.

“Everything.” I whisper as his breathing evens out.  I run my hands over his forehead, my fingers searching for the feel of his hair against my skin.  I slowly register the conversation between Rye and Dr. Aguilar.

“I will prescribe the time from your commanding officer.  It will help speed his recovery.” Dr. Aguilar looks pointedly at Rye before at me.  “I’ll do the same for you.  I’m reserving time in your schedule to visit Peeta as part of his memory recovery treatment.  Considering today, I want to structure your visits so that we can ease him back into his lost memories.”

“Will he get any of them back?” I ask.

Dr. Aguilar sighs at this.  “There is no way of knowing at the moment.  Some patients with retrograde amnesia have a slow return of their memories; some memories return in punctuated bursts but still others will never recover their lost memories again.  Only time will tell.”  She directs her attention to Rye now.  “You’ve been here for hours.  I will call you if there are any changes in his condition.”  Rye looks from me to the doctor, clearly unwilling to leave us alone but he has been effectively dismissed and he has no choice but to leave.  With a scowl, he exits the room.

Dr. Aguilar turns her attention to me.  “Rye does not accept you.  I fear that he is displacing his anger and grief from those responsible for his condition – the Capitol – onto you.  I have scheduled time for both of you with Dr. Aurelius but I believe for now, it will be more productive if you meet separately for Peeta’s treatment.  It may also help to break his _fixation_ on you.”

I nod, casting a sad glance at Peeta.  I feel a bitter realization rising in me that now that he is finally here, it’s as if half of him is missing – the half that belongs to me.  The thing that distinguished our bond from the ones I shared with others in my life – the bread, the Hunger Games, the Arenas – is gone.  I have no idea what consequences that will have.  I’m selfish, I know this.  I should be relieved that he will not remember the horrors he endured – will not have the nightmares and flashbacks that plague my life. But he was the only one who understood that aspect of my experiences and a crucial bridge between us has been knocked down by his amnesia.  Maybe he will never understand me again and the prospect of this makes me feel something worse than sadness.

I become aware of Dr. Aguilar’s quiet observation of me and rouse myself from my thinking.  I remember that Gale is probably still outside waiting for me and make to leave when the doctor stops me.  “He is open to you, Katniss.  This is a positive sign.  And he accepts your support and comfort.   Whatever is going on in his head, he at least remembers trusting you.”  She is interrupted by a beeping noise from her communicuff and looks at it.  “I have to run.  I’ll be on your schedule tomorrow.”  With that, she leads me out of the room.

Gale is leaning against a wall, unmoving as one of the desks he faces.  This is his hunting stance, the one he takes when he has laid a snare and is waiting for prey to fall into his trap.  His large frame is able to go so still, he becomes the woods he inhabits.  When he sees me, his entire body comes to life and I imagine in the forest of my mind all the animals being startled and fleeing in shock at the virtual invisibility of the hunter, how close they’ve come to their own end.  It reminds me of fresh air and open spaces, the tall trees and rough boulders of our woods and I am suddenly lost in a labyrinth of nostalgia.  I miss my woods.   I miss District 12.  I miss the boy with the bread.

I don’t want to cry in front of Gale – I’ve never really cried in front of him, except when I begged him to take care of Prim and Mom after my first Reaping and when I found out about District 12.  Most of my tears had been shed with Peeta – when the rules of the Games made it so that we were antagonists again in the first Arena, before the berries that resulted in all of this; those endless, nightmare-ridden nights on the train; during the Quarter Quell on the beach.  But only I can remember those tears now, and my desolation is complete.

Gale guides me carefully through the maze of District 13, through the soulless corridors and empty walls.  My head is pounding and I remember that I have a concussion up there somewhere, that I am bruised and banged up in my head too.  Except unlike Peeta, for me to forget what needs to be forgotten, to be a different Katniss, I’d have to go much farther back to a place where there is just a young girl with a dead father and a black hole for a mother;  an unfinished prototype. I’d have to erase so much more, until I am just a name in a ragged dress, the girl inside too tiny and incomplete to really be seen in it.

My thoughts become darker and darker and I don’t have a word to spare for Gale.  I think of the sleeping medicine I’ve been prescribed and hurry down the halls towards my room.  I want oblivion.  I don’t want to think or feel or know anymore.  I’ve had enough and I want to escape this reality.  Gale leads, sensing my impatience – his long, powerful legs easily covering twice the space I can but even so, I push on and the empty sterility of my room becomes a poor respite from the empty sterility outside.  The redundant metaphor strikes me as so absurd, I stop and let out a laugh, a long maniacal one that I think weirds Gale out for good this time.  My laugh becomes hysteria and now they come, those awful, traitorous tears and I’m hiccupping against the door, unable to open the damned thing because I don’t know how any of what I’m surrounded by works so I end up simply banging uselessly against it.

Gale reaches his communicuff around me and by some black magic, opens the door of my bedroom and steps aside to let me by.  Once the door is shut, I am against his chest, the smell of him so familiar my heart cracks into a million pieces.  There is no need to search for it. There will never be cinnamon and sugar and uncooked bread here.  No, Gale’s smell is unmistakably his and brings me back to our lost lives so powerfully, my legs buckle and soon I am being carried to my bed, the tears flowing unchecked.  My head feels like it’s been caught in a vice and I reach out to search a drawer for the pills.  Gale, always a step ahead of me, brings me a glass of water from the sink in the bathroom and sets it down next to me.  However, he grabs my hands before I can put the pills in my mouth.

“Maybe you don’t need this right now, Katniss.  This…” Gale holds up my hand with the pills clenched in my fist, “is just putting off the inevitable. “

“I don’t want…to feel this…I want…”  I push the words out of my chest incomprehensibly, my breath coming in pants.

“It’s just an escape.  It doesn’t make it any better, Catnip…” he says with his low, soothing voice.

The aching lump of pain that is pushing its way up out of my chest lodges in my throat and I try to suppress it.  I don’t want it but it comes out in a torrent that I cannot control, “He’s gone, Gale, he’s gone!  He won’t remember...remember what we were to each other.  He won’t understand why I’ve changed, why I am so broken and if I was nothing before, I’m less than that now.  He’s gone and I just want to sleep.  I just want to let go.  Can’t I forget too?”  I plead pathetically.  “Even for a little while?”  I put my fist in my mouth, knowing I’ve gone too far, said too much to the wrong person.  Gale in the meantime looks briefly like someone has punched him in the face but he recovers quickly and the soothing is back, his hand on my forehead, his thumb on the bridge of my nose.

“Yeah, it sucks when you love someone and you are almost positive that person will never love you back.”  He sighs, furrowing his brow and now I must add self-revulsion and remorse to the host of feelings that are warring inside of me.  However, his touch soothes me, his solidity; the warmth of his long, callused fingers.  I’m doing it again.  I’m taking what I need without a modicum of concern for the person I’m inflicting myself on but it is like air to my lungs and I do what I do best.  I take his comfort and solace because I am weak and can do no less.   I need it as badly as I need air and am suffocating for want of this kind of comfort.

I begin to relax under his ministrations, the hysteria hovering over my chest recedes back into that dark place where it always resides.  He’s taken my hand and is rubbing the soft muscle between my thumb and forefinger and soon I am suffused with warmth.  I think reflexively about Peeta and my chest clenches but Gale’s gently kneading fingers keep the feeling from overtaking me.  I release the pills in my fist, letting them fall on the mattress and roll away from me, which he quickly scoops up and replaces in the pill bottle.  “These,” he says, “are for emergencies only.  Don’t become another Haymitch.” he scolds.

He brings up the duvette on the bed, not bothering with my boots and tucks it around me.  “You need to rest, Catnip.  I’ll see you at dinner.  I’ve got to track down Posy and Vick now or they’ll end up in a refuse tube or something.” He chuckles before his face changes again and the intensity that burns in his eyes causes something to seize up in my chest, a different kind of panic than the one I felt just moments before.  My breath hitches when he lowers his head but thankfully, he is not aiming for my mouth, something for which I am completely unprepared to handle, but my cheek.  He leaves a soft kiss, the heat from his exhaling breath bursting across my skin, warming me down to my soul.  His nose just grazes the warmed skin before he pulls back to look at me.  “I thought when you got reaped for the Quarter Quell, I’d never see you again.  I’m so glad I was wrong.”  He gazes at me for another moment before taking a deep breath and straightening up to his full height, wiping his palms on his pants leg.  Without another word, he dims the light and closes the door behind him.

  


**XXXXX**

  


I spend the time till dinner in a twilight world of jumbled memories both real and made up.  I reinvent scenarios for Peeta waking from his coma, a Peeta who remembers me, who has not forgotten that he loves me.  In these fantasies, I forget there is a revolution, that I should be the Mockingjay, that again my fate somehow rests in other’s hands.  Instead, there is an orange sunset, District 12 in one piece and Peeta exactly the way he was.  When I fall asleep, the nightmares come – relentlessly.  Mostly I am reliving the worst of my experiences in the arena – Rue being speared through by Marvel, Mags convulsing under the weight of the poison cloud, Peeta lying lifeless on the jungle floor.  I wake to my own screams, Prim cradling my head in her lap as she sings the song I often sang to her when she was overcome by her nightmares:

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again it’s morning, they’ll wash away_

  


_Here it’s safe, and here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet–_

_– and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

  


_Here is the place where I love you._

The dark visions recede and I’m left only with my throbbing head, my throat raw from screaming and Prim’s sweet singing like a persistent ray of sunshine through a storm cloud.  I tether myself to the sound of her voice and let it carry me briefly back home, to the small house in the Seam, the smell of coal and vegetation.  The ground is wet beneath my boot, the trees sodden and thick with moisture.  However, I am yanked back to District 13 by the cold reminder that 12 probably now smells of burnt flesh and ash, a thought that brings me fully awake.

“Little duck.” I murmur into her chest.

She rewards me with a small chuckle.  “I’m not that small, you know.  I’ll be taller than you.  That’s what the doctor told me.  I’m due for a growth spurt any time now.” She says excitedly.  “And they said I could be recommended for Medical Training.  The doctors were impressed with the work mom and I did with the refugees in the woods after the firebombing.  She’ll be trained too but I’m younger and there is a chance I could even become a doctor.”  She was breathless now and for a moment, I feel the delicious blossoming of a feeling in my chest that I’ve felt too few times in my life – hope.  Strength floods my tired muscles and pushes the muddled pain of my concussion back a few steps as I grip her to me.

“Thank you.” I whisper.

She chuckles again, that throaty, sweet laugh that is just this side of the line of womanhood, still girlish in pitch but promising a husky timbre when her body decides to catch up with her soul.  “What for?” she says through the smile in her voice.

I shrug.  That’s all I have in the way of expressing myself but Prim gets it.  She gets me.  “You would make an amazing doctor.  They’d be stupid not to understand that.” I say with feeling.

“I like to think so.” She jumps up and opens the drawer to the small dresser we share, pulling out a hair brush.  Without a word, she hops onto the bed and undoes the rat’s nest that is now my braid.  Gently, without tugging at my scalp, she unravels the knots in my hair, the strokes of the soft bristles through my hair relaxing me further and too soon, she has redone my braid and set the brush back in its place.  “I guess you like it here?” I ask.

“All the District 12 people like it.  We get extra food to get us up to our normal weight.  Everyone is being trained for something – whether to be a soldier or a medic or to work in food production or engineering – everybody has something to do.  Nobody is scared or sick anymore.  We’re missing too many people – all the people who didn’t make it out.” Here, Prim’s face falls a bit.  “But the ones who are here know that they have it good.  I don’t mind the schedules.  It makes me feel productive.”  She pulls up her sleeve and indeed, there are times and activities imprinted on the inner part of her forearm.  “I know where I have to be every hour.  You see…” she points at the different times, “meals, reflection, class, training, lights out…” her dainty fingers dance across her clean, pale skin.  “We go to school too, you know.  History, math, science…”  Her eyes are bright now.  “We learn a lot more here than just about coal.”

I smile at my sister’s enthusiasm, her expectations and hope and I am almost able to dispel my own personal hopelessness.  There’s a war, after all, and Peeta who doesn’t know me…

I shake it off.  I want to enjoy this brief excursion into Prim’s optimism.  “When is meal time?” I ask. “I’m starving!”

Prim laughs at me.  “You are so primitive.  We can go now if you want.  We’ll be early but it’s okay.  They put up with us District 12 folk.”

“Okay, but I better go with you.  I won’t be able to figure out how to get there on my own.” I laugh back at her.

“Oh, really, it’s easy, once you understand the system.  I’ll show you while we walk.” She says as she leads me to the door.

I walk with Prim, letting her take my hand as she shows me how to make my way around.  Colors are for quadrants, numbers for floors, letters for sections.  The sections line up vertically so that section A on the first floor is right above section A on the second floor and so forth.  The top levels are not as populated as the lower levels, especially in a state of war, because missiles are most likely to cause damage at the top.  Likewise, Sections A-F are blue, G-L are Yellow, M-R is Green and S-Z are Red.  So my intuition is correct – we are sitting in a large cylinder shape, the face divided into four larger sections.  Medical is located primarily in sections A-F, G-L is for Residential Quarters, M-R is for Food, Textile and Living Production and S-Z was Weaponry, Engineering and Transportation.

Prim pulls up her sleeve and shows me her schedule.  There is the time and the activity and at the end, the location indicated by the section, floor and room number.  Elevators are interspersed periodically to move inhabitants laterally and horizontally to their destinations.  There are also stairwells to access the different floors and to provide emergency movement in the event elevators are out of order.  Seeing District 13 in this way, I understand its organization and I’m sure I won’t get lost again.

“You figured out the whole place already, didn’t you?” I say as Prim takes me through two large double doors.

“Like I said, once you get the hang of it, it’s easy to get around.” She says as we enter the dining room.  It is large and shiny, like everything else here, with long tables filled with people engaged in conversation, the clink of silverware interspersed between the exchange of words.  However, as we make our way to the other side of the room where the serving line is located, the chatter in the room goes dead.  Even the silverware seems to hang suspended in mid-air and I feel eyes boring into me.  Prim’s eyes flit from side to side, observing the observers while my breath begins to come in bursts.  I want to turn and run – I’m not ready for this scrutiny and all my nerves go numb at once.  My heart is pounding at the base of my throat and I’m moments away from a full out meltdown.

Prim, sensing my distress, grabs my hand and takes a deep breath, drawing herself up to her full, small, height and tugs me forward, marching defiantly towards the line, her beautiful blue eyes returning each stare in proud obstinance. I fairly stumble behind her, allowing her to pull me along as she stares boldly into the eyes of her audience until people are forced to drop their eyes.  The whispers continue but little by little, as if by dint of her small but unbending will, the curious diners return to their activities of before, the noise returning to its previous level.  Many of the residents still cast furtive glances at me but Prim’s demeanor fairly announces that the show is over.  My hand shakes as I take the tray from the dispenser, aghast with myself that my sister was able to pull it together so much better than I could.

Once we are served our meals of thick, grainy soup and a nondescript vegetable mash, we make our way to a group of tables where District 12 residents are clustered.  There, Gale is seated amiably next to Johanna, who twirls a spoon compulsively.  However, when he sees, me, he stiffens, a reaction that does not go unnoticed by Johanna, eliciting her trademark scowl of displeasure.   Across from her is Rory, Posy, Vick and Hazel, all chewing their food diligently but slowly, clearly not enjoying their meal.   When I make my way over, Johanna scowls at me from her place next to Gale.  I nod at them in acknowledgement as I sit down and dig into my food, the tough gruel a welcome distraction from the tension that has suddenly descended on the table.

Prim strikes up an easy conversation with Hazel, leaving me to my own devices with Johanna.

“Where’s Finnick?” I ask after a several minutes.

Johanna taps the table with the end of the spoon.  “He’s in recovery again.  He’s having a hard time with his sanity.”

I think back to our time on the hovercraft, his mute sadness and the meeting with Command, the obsessive knotting and unknotting of a short length of rope.  “Losing Mags must have been hard on him.”

My comment is met with a hard bang of the spoon’s end against the table.  “Mags?” she laughs mirthlessly.  “Yeah, Mags was a blow.  She was more than a mentor… but he’s really losing it because of Annie.”

“Annie?” I pause from chewing the rubbery vegetables.  “She’s not in District 4?”

“Damn, you really are brainless!  No, she’s not in District 4.  The Capitol has her and Finnick isn’t handling it very well.  He’s medicated half the time and when he’s not, he’s checked out anyway.”   Johanna leans dramatically against Gale, who just casts her a bemused look before shifting slightly away.  “Don’t play hard to get, now, just ‘cause your mom’s here.” She chuckles and I look at her darkly, relieved that Hazel is too engaged trying to get Posy to swallow the last of her mush to pay attention to Johanna.  “Yeah, he’s a regular nutcase,“   she stands abruptly, gathering her utensils and tossing them noisily onto the tray.  “Nice talking to you, Katniss.”  She throws a sidelong glance at Gale and whispers in his ear, loud enough for me to hear.  “Room 8384.” With a gentle hip bump to Gale’s shoulder, she gives me a smug smile and leaves the table.

I glare at Gale while he studiously avoids the arrows I am slinging from my eyes.  I finish the rest of my meal in silence and stand up suddenly from the table, just barely acknowledging everyone before stomping out of the dining hall.  This time, I’m so aggravated, the stares I get don’t mean anything to me.  I’m not sure why I’m so pissed – like someone just took my spot on a seesaw in the playground - but I am and everything suddenly feels too cramped around me.   I decide to put my newfound knowledge of District 13 to good use and make my way to Recovery, now that I know where Finnick is.

As I walk, I think about Johanna and my blood boils.  It would be naïve of me to think that Gale would not attract the attention of any of the girls here in District 13 – the girls in school were always going on and on about him.  But I never really envisioned him returning those attentions.  I honestly never gave it much thought one way or the other.  However, responding to Johanna’s blunt overtures seems a bit much, even for him and the proof of his desirability to the opposite sex and the fact that he returns that interest triggers an almost child-like possessiveness in me, leaving me confused and unhappy.

With these thoughts spinning in my head, I enter the blue zone and now I’m lost.  There are levels to this place and I have no clue where Finnick is.  At one point, I catch a nurse and ask her about him.  She looks at me oddly and I realize I’m not scheduled for a visit but I feign ignorance of the scheduling rules (I’m from District 12 after all and anyway, I can get away with something as the famous Girl on Fire).  She goes to a computer and hesitantly writes down the coordinates and soon I am taking the elevator to the correct level, studying the doors for the room number until I open one and see Finnick, balled up on his side on a bed.  He looks like he’s sleeping but he does not have the even rise and fall of slumber.

I walk slowly to his side so as not to startle him and whisper his name, “Finnick?”

His eyes, puffy and red-rimmed are open but all I see are two deep green pools of misery.  After the conversation with Johanna, I can’t help but be heartbroken for Finnick.  I can only imagine what condition I would be in if it had been Peeta in Annie’s place.  I reach to move a lock of hair that’s fallen over his face, letting my fingers run gently down his cheek.  There isn’t much to say in this circumstance so I say the only thing that makes sense to me.  “I’m sorry.” I whisper.

He gives me a sad, watery smile.  “I am too.  She’s been through enough.  The only reason she is there at all is because of me.  She has no clue about the rebellion or District 13.  It’s all my fault.”  His chest heaves in pain.  “I’d off myself if I didn’t think that would just get her killed.” He says despondently.

“Shhhh.  Don’t say that.” I whisper.  My mind is whirling, thinking.  I can’t stand the idea of that poor, mad girl being tortured by anyone, and especially to punish Finnick.  Rage flares up in me, the old familiar rage that I have felt towards the Capitol to one degree or another all of my life.

“I’m going to start training tomorrow.” I say, trying to distract him from Annie for a bit.

He gives me a sweet, heartbreaking smile.  “That’s nice, Katniss.  They won’t let me train.  They say I’m too mentally unstable.” He laughs bitterly at this.

“Well, you need to pull it together.” I say with gentle ferocity.  “You never know when you might be needed, when _Annie_ might need you and if you don’t get some training, you’ll be useless.  Don’t you want to fight?  We may eventually storm the Capitol one day and you could be there to get her out.” I say this and realize that this is the first time I have mentally allied myself to this endeavor - given myself permission to identify with this cause.  I know that it is like painting castles in the sky for a child but all of us have been living on the thin thread of hope for so long and there seemed to be no reason to not keep hoping.

Finnick’s eyes seem to sparkle and I marvel at myself at the moment, silently thanking Prim – it’s like she’s lit a small spark in me which I am able to carry here to Finnick and maybe light him up with it as well.  “Do you believe that?” he says and the tone clutches at my heart, squeezing it in compassion.

“We should be dead, Finnick, or worse.  But we’re here.  We’re Victors twice over, for goodness sake!”   I nod as I say this.  “I believe that we ought to be able to do _something_.  We survived the Arena, after all.  Who would have thought that?  You have to be ready when the moment comes.   Lying here in bed certainly isn’t the way to go about it.”

“You sound like Jo.” He chuckles but the grey pallor of his features recedes a bit and there is a lively flush to his skin now.  He sits up and crosses his legs. “She’s ready to take the Capitol on all by herself.”

The mere mention of Johanna causes something to rise up in me but I ignore it and instead say, “She might have a point, then.  Not about the Capitol, of course, but about fighting.  We need to get ready for it.”

He is fidgeting with his rope now but he seems less depressed.  “I’ll try my best.” As if suddenly remembering, he asks, “Hey, how’s Peeta?”

Now my heart, which had been almost soaring, sinks to the bottom of my stomach.  I shake my head.  “He’ll be fine physically but he’s forgotten everything from before the Games.  The doctor says he might get his memory back but it’s hard to know.” I look away from him, hoping he won’t see my how dispirited I am and become sad himself.  “So he didn’t even remember losing his leg.  That was bad.” I chuckle darkly.

“Poor Peeta!  Imagine you wake up in a strange place, no leg and you don’t remember what happened to get you there.  That’s rough.” Finnick says.

“Add to that that only his brother survived the firebombing on District 12 and you can imagine what a nightmare he woke up to.”

Finnick blows a long breath out of his lungs.  “How about you?  Does he remember…?”

I shake my head, tears threatening to overwhelm me.  Finnick stares at me for a moment.  “I’ve underestimated you, Katniss.  I thought the romance between you and Peeta was a survival strategy.”

“That’s how it started out.” I whisper.

“It wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field that I realized how much I’d misjudged you.” He says quietly.

“How?”

“That you love him.  Anyone who was paying attention could see how much you care about him.”

The tears I’ve been holding back roll unbidden down my face.  “Well, he doesn’t remember loving me so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“No, no, no, Katniss.  I don’t accept that.  If I had Annie…” here he calmed his quavering voice, “…if I had Annie here with me now, I wouldn’t let a thing like amnesia come between us.  The mind is complex, Katniss, and so is the heart.  It doesn’t forget. Love is written in the body, in the _soul_.  A love that powerful doesn’t just disappear!  It survives itself.  You’ve got a head start because he’s loved you all his life, hasn’t he?”

“So he’s always said.” I think back on the burnt bread.  How could I doubt it?

“So now back at you, Girl on Fire.  You need to be ready for _your_ fight.  You can’t let things stand like that.  This is no time to go all loopy.” He leaps out of bed, startling me.  “I’ll be fit for training in no time but you,” he jabbed his fingers at me, “have a different kind of fight on your hands.  Don’t go back to your old comforts and excuses…” I thought immediately about Gale.  Finnick put his face right up to mine.  “I can’t do this if you give up on Peeta.  Nobody else here understands, except maybe Jo.   I’ll pull myself together but you have to also.  You understand?  You don’t know the gift you’ve been given.  I have no doubt that if Peeta had been in the Capitol’s hands, you’d have been in worse shape than me.”  I shiver at the thought.  “But he’s here and alive.  If you take this situation in hand, he won’t need his memories to love you again.”  At the end of his speech, he seems to deflate and sits back on the edge of the bed.  “You have no idea what you’ve been given.” he says, almost to himself.

He grabs at his piece of rope and begins knotting and unknotting it. He seems to fold in on himself as if I’ve worn him out.  I attempt to speak to him again but he simply shakes his head.  “I have to distract myself. Annie’s come upon me like a specter and if I think too long about her, I’ll fall apart again.  And trust me, Katniss, it takes ten times as long to put myself back together as it does to fall apart.”

“I’m so sorry.” I tell him.  “I brought this on.”

“No, Katniss. I’m going to pull it together.  Your visit has done me good.”

I leave him soon afterwards and head towards the elevator that will take me to level 10.  My mind is teaming with thoughts that I need to sort out.  If there was a chance to get outside into the woods and climb a tree, I’d be there already.  As it is, my legs take me automatically to the now-familiar horse-shoe shaped nurse’s desk.  I’m buzzed in by a curious nurse who is less hesitant to allow me access to Peeta’s room.  He is sleeping, of course.  His body and mind are still repairing themselves.

I think back on Finnick’s words, how this is a gift and I sit down quietly in the chair next to his bed.  My heart wants to burst with a feeling I’ve only ever associated with food – longing. I’m hungry inside and I will only really be satisfied by Peeta.  And he is just out of my reach, just a few spaces beyond my outstretched fingers.  There is a resolve building in me but it sits under layers and layers of leaden doubt.  I stare at his profile, a slow thud beginning to build in my head and soon, I am in a state between wakefulness and sleep.  I realize I’ve dozed off when I feel my head rolling on my shoulder, snapping me to attention.  When my eyes open, I find myself gazing into the two most beautiful blue eyes that I’ve ever seen in my life, both for their color and for their dearness to me.  We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment before I hear his dry, raspy speech.

“Hello, Katniss.”

“Peeta…” I whisper, moving forward in my chair.

He breathes deeply, staring at me in curiosity. I wait, trying to measure his mood, to understand what he needs.

“I’m completely lost.” he whispers.  “I don’t know what’s what anymore.”

I stand and approach his bed slowly.  “I know.  But I’m here.  You don’t remember but _I_ do.  Whatever you need, I’ll be here.”

His sad blue eyes flit away from me before searching my face again.  “Did I love you a lot?”

I smile slowly, thinking of his strong arms holding the nightmares at bay.  “I never had a doubt.” I say, omitting that he did not always have the same certainty from me.

He simply nods, getting lost in his thoughts.  “Katniss, where do I start?  I feel like my life doesn’t belong to me anymore, like I’m someone else.”

I take his hand and bring it to my cheek. I’m taking liberties, I know this, but I imagine tapping into that lost part of him that still belongs to me.  “We’ll figure something out.  Just...do you trust me?” I ask.

Peeta’s eyes bore into mine as he considers my question.  “I don’t know why but I do.”

“Then we’ll get through this.  It’s what we do.  Take care of each other.”  I set his hand gently down on the bed but he doesn’t let go.

“Will you...will you stay?  For a little more.” he asks and my heart shatters at his vulnerability and suddenly I want to keep the world away from him, to put him somewhere safe where nothing will ever hurt him again.  I feel myself getting emotional and curse my weakness, the tears that lately always seem ready to fall.

“Oh Peeta…” I gasp. “…yes.” I pause to take a ragged breath as I sit down on the edge of his mattress.  “Always.”

 

  


 


	9. Love is a Battlefield

 

**_Believe me_ **

**_Believe me_ **

**_I can’t tell you why_ **

**_But I’m trapped by your love_ **

**_And I’m chained to your side_ **

  
  


**_-from Love is a Battlefield by Pat Benetar_ **

  
  


_“Everything was the way it had always been until the Reaping.  Then Primrose Everdeen’s name was called and Katniss stepped in to volunteer for her.”_

_My voice caught in my throat with disbelief.  I was in awe of this.  “She volunteered for her sister?”_

_“Yeah.” answered Rye. It was clear he didn’t like Katniss but even he spoke of that moment with some reverence.  Parents would have gone into the arena to save their children but siblings were not known for volunteering for each other.  Self-abnegation was not a big trait at that age but Katniss’ life had been a training ground for abnegation.  I remembered that part._

_“And then you got Reaped.”  Rye said, dropping his eyes in shame.  He didn’t have to say it.  I understood.  Even with the precedence that Katniss had set with Prim, it was like lightning striking the same spot twice.  No one had volunteered for me.  It hit me like a stroke of intuition that perhaps part of his resentment towards Katniss could also be his own failure to live up to that standard._

_“Don’t worry.  I don’t know if I would have been able to do what Katniss did either.” I said._

_Rye took a ragged breath.  “Actually you could have because you did.”_

_I was taken aback.  “What?”_

_“During the Quarter Quell.  Haymitch Abernathy was reaped.  You volunteered to go in his place.”_

_“Why would I do that?” I said, shaking my head in disbelief._

_“Because of Katniss.  You weren’t going to let her go in with Haymitch. She would be as good as alone, so you volunteered in his place.  You wanted to protect her, even if it killed you.  She’s good at getting you to protect her.” Here his voice betrayed his resentment.  “She’s been nothing but trouble since the day you got mixed up with her. I’ll never forgive her for what happened to our family or District 12, not for as long as I live.”_

_I looked down at my hands, picking at the blankets.  What could I say to that?  And yet, even though it was new information and was somewhat shocking, everything in me told me that this was not just possible, but true.  I’d gone in with her - for her.  The knowledge was hidden in the sinews of my muscles, buried in the bruised cells of my brain.  I’d gone in with her as surely as I remembered my name._

_How does a girl who is courageous enough to volunteer for her sister cause the death of so many people?  And how does the mere sound of the name of someone my brother hates so much inspire the exact opposite feeling in me?_

  
  


**XXXXX**

  
  


The rest of our visit goes by quickly as Rye describes the circumstances of the Quarter Quell, that the Victors had been Reaped from the existing pool of Victors.  It was an absolute show of power by a government that already demanded too much of its people.  And somehow, I, Katniss and the other Victors had confounded the Capitol by surviving and destroying the Arena in the process.  And now we are in a place that wasn’t supposed to exist, in a war we didn’t even know was being fought.  I lean against the pillows, my head throbbing from the effort to process all of this new information.

The biggest mystery of all is Katniss herself.  She had always been the girl I watched from afar, the girl I couldn’t have but apparently something _had_ happened because there she was when I opened my eyes, clearly overjoyed to see me.  There was Gale, of course - he and Katniss were inseparable.  I had always believed them to be more than friends for as long as I could remember.  So why had she flung herself across the room at me when I first woke?  And in front of him, no less.  

And there was the kissing – she’d taken all the air from my lungs and left me panting. It was amazing and overwhelming at the same time.  How was I supposed to make it all fit together?  Rye had even used the words “seduced” which implied that a lot more happened between the two of us than just overjoyed kissing.  And Rye’s obvious anger towards her couldn’t be ignored.  I’d never known him to be so rude towards anyone.

I shake my head, causing a stab of pain to lance up behind my eye and into my battered skull.   I’d met Dr. Aurelius that morning and we’d spoken at length about my disorientation, the possibility of my memory’s return, and my grief.  Because there is also the untapped sea of sadness that washes over me and swallows me whole.  Whenever my thoughts fly to my family, my heart pound in my chest and I can’t stop the tears.  This always concerns Dr. Aguilar because of my blood pressure - “Mind the pressure, Mellark!” seems to be her refrain.  But she is not insensitive. She knows the unspeakable horror of District 12's destruction threatens to drown me time and again and sometimes, I have to let it.  Rye says District 12 was destroyed because Katniss blew up the Arena.  He doesn't have to come right out and say it but he blames Katniss for that too.  He’s keeping  track of all of Katniss’ transgressions - our family’s deaths, the destruction of District 12, my amnesia, the whole revolution - and it’s an impressive list of reasons to hate her.

**XXXXX**

  
  


I doze off, but I’m not really able to sleep deeply since my body is too well-rested. I want to get out of this bed already.  Laying here like a lump of dough is not helping my memory but again, Dr. Aguilar is borderline paranoid about my pressure.  Fine, but laying here is boring as hell.  If I try to read, my head starts pounding and the television features endless lectures about the history of District 13 and news programs that only increase my anxiety.  And there are no words for how desolate these rooms are.  It’s impossible to know what time it is without looking at the digital clock embedded in the wall because there are no windows.  Rye tells me we are hundreds of feet underground and it really does feel like it.  I’d give anything to crack open a window in this place.  I miss the smell of the woods, the crisp mountain air that almost never fails to chill a room at night no matter how hot it gets during the day.

While I’m lost in one of these stupors of longing, Katniss suddenly appears.  She has an uncannily quiet step despite the clunky boots that clearly seem to be at least a size too big for her, giving her feet the appearance of  a flapping duck.  This together with the standard-issue grey jumper uniform typical of District 13 makes her look momentarily unfamiliar to me.  But my easily befuddled brain finally recovers itself and I can't help but feel a sudden, involuntary surge of happiness at the sight of her.

She hovers near the side of my bed seemingly unsure of where she should sit.  I relieve her of her indecision by patting the mattress next to me.

"How are you feeling?" she asks shyly as she settles down.

"A little stir crazy, actually.  I can't wait til they let me out of here."

She nods with understanding. "I can appreciate that."  She lapses into a nervous silence, her small hands lying restlessly on the bed.  She is strumming with a pent-up energy that seems to cause the air to vibrate around her.   I don't know where the impulse comes from but I stretch my hand out and grasp her restless fingers in mine.  I have a sudden fear that I may have done too much by the way her breath hitches in her throat but just as I am about to withdraw my hand, she captures and entwines her fingers in mine.

"How are _you_ doing?" I ask.

"Oh, you know, the usual.  I started training.  Nothing really physical because of my concussion but I'm doing light weaponry.  I have classes too.  Nuclear History," she bites her bottom lip, the sight of which causes my heart to leap momentarily.  I take a moment to really look at her.  She’s the same girl I always knew but she seems healthier and stronger.  To me, she’d always been beautiful but there is something less girlish and more insistent about her beauty and I feel something stirring inside of me that makes me anxious.  I’m determined to be unbiased about her before I know everything but my body is betraying me at every turn.  

“You know, if everything goes okay, you’ll be out of here soon,” she answers, oblivious to my struggle, lost in a thought that is so intense, her face seems to squinch up from thinking so hard about it.  “Isn’t it interesting that you forgot this very specific time in your life?  Everything that had to do with the Games?”

“Dr. Aurelius suggested there might be a psychological component to my memory loss but no one can be really sure of that.  The head wound offers a better explanation.”  A frustration with my amnesia bubbles up inside of me and I blurt out my thoughts without filtering them. “Tell me what’s missing, Katniss.”  I plead. “I’m tired of this gap in memory between me and everyone else. It's like there's a story featuring you and me and everyone we know.  The problem is, I left during one of those intermissions and I’m just getting back again and now I don't know what happened.”  I stroke her hand with my thumb, hoping to reassure her.  “Just tell me what I missed."

Katniss looks down at our joined hands, her lips pressed into a thin line.  “You won’t like the whole story.  There are some traumatic parts.”

“Every good story has rough parts.  It’s okay.  I’m a big boy and anyway I can’t remember any of it, right?  It’ll be like it’s about somebody else.”

She snorts quietly, shaking her head but a small smile dances on her lips as she nods.  “Alright then.  Once upon a time…”

I drop my head back against the pillow and groan.  “No, not one of those!”

Katniss grins, a playful look that steals the humor away from me and replaces it with a low vibration of need that makes my skin tingle.  “If you aren’t careful, I’ll put a unicorn and a dragon in there too.  It’s not like they’d be that of place.”

“I’m behaving.” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “Are you comfortable?” I say, scooting my functional leg over so that she will have more space.

She nods and shifts so that she is practically leaning against my thigh.  My skin has become so hypersensitive that the mere pressure of her thigh against mine feels like butterflies have been released from my belly and are fluttering to every extremity of my body.  

“So…” she begins.  “Do you remember Reaping Day last year?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Okay, we’ll start with the First Reaping.  We hadn’t spoken since that one time I sold the three squirrels to your father about a month before.  Do you remember that?  You were frosting the Hanley girl’s birthday cake.  There were purple and pink flowers and ribbons along the side…”

“You have a good memory!” I laughed.  I’m not able to remember that specific cake though the motif was a common enough one.  All we ever did was exchange salutations but maybe that is what ranks as talking for Katniss.

“When I’m paying attention.” her eyes drop down with a kind of shame before she continues.

“After you were chosen as the male tribute, they took us away to the Justice Building, you know, to say goodbye to our families.  Then they put us on the train to the Capitol.  From the minute you got on that train, you were scheming, trying to get Haymitch to do his job and actually mentor us.  You even slapped him at one point.” here she smiles and I can’t help but smile also at the image this conjures up.

“I hope he forgave me for that.” I quip but I’m truly shocked by my behavior.

“Oh, he more than forgave you.  I think he likes you much more than he does me.” her face clouds and a pained expression settles on her.  I sense she is leaving out a whole universe with that statement.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing.”  Katniss voice begins to shake and she stands suddenly from the bed.  “This story you want to hear - it has its moments but it’s so bad in places that maybe it’s better if you don’t remember it at all.”

“Katniss,’ I grab her hand. “Please.  You are one of the few people who can help me remember who I am.  I know it’s hard but I need you.  I need you to do this for me.”  She looks directly at me, her eyes glassy with tears and indecision.  “Please?” I try again to convince her.  I’m confused with myself, at the ease with which I am able to appeal to a girl who, until my most recent memory, so intimidated me, I could barely say hello to her.

Katniss makes a decision and sits back down.  “I have a million memories!  I get lost, you know.”  She takes a deep breath and continues.  “They took us to the Training Center where they prepped us.  That’s why you aren’t growing a beard.” I automatically bring my hand up to touch my chin. “It will grow back eventually but they treated us, especially the girls, so we’d be like hairless mole rats.  Our stylists were Cinna and Portia.  I’m not sure where Portia is but Cinna is dead.”  Katniss’ stoicism falters and her face struggles to keep its composure.  “He made us look like we were on fire for the Tribute Parade.  Every outfit he created for us made a statement.”  She stops struggling to keep a lonely tear from escaping her and she brushes it furiously away.  “He was so clever and I think he hated what the Capitol did to its tributes and it got him killed.”

“Katniss, are you going to be okay?” I ask, questioning for the first time whether this is a good idea to make her relive these memories.

“No, Peeta.  I’m not going to be okay!  They beat Cinna to death because of me!  They firebombed District 12 because of me! You don’t know how many people are dead _because of me_!”  Suddenly she stands up and I sense this time, I’m not going to get her to sit back down.  “I can’t do this.  I know you need it but this is too much for me right now.”  

Was Rye right?  This girl, for whom every cell in my body seems to scream out, is it possible that she is actually responsible for everything that has happened to me?  To District 12?  I suddenly become angry and I don’t take long to think about why.

“Rye says you used me to survive in both arenas.  Whenever we were in front of the cameras, you pretended to be madly in love with me yet you couldn’t be bothered with me when we got back to District 12 after the first games.” I pause, desperately waiting for her to refute what I’ve said.

Her stunned silence tells me she won’t so I blunder on.  “Then, in the Quarter Quell, you were willing to do...anything...to make sure I protected you.  Is that true? Did you seduce me to ensure my loyalty?  Did you figure good, old reliable Peeta would do anything for you if you gave him what he’s always dreamed of…”

Katniss’ face crumples momentarily, a look of pain so heartbreaking, my anger drains away and I all I want to do is call those words back to me but it’s too late because she's become stone.  She was already on her feet but now she seems to become taller with her rage.  

“Is that what Rye told you?  That I used you?  And you believe him?” Her eyes flashed and I almost couldn’t concentrate on what she said next.  “He has no idea what happened between us.  Even if he _saw_ it he could never understand it.”  As suddenly as her anger flares, it burns out and she visibly deflates before me.  In all her moods, she is breathtaking and I suddenly have an overwhelming yet confusing urge to touch her.  She seems to want to say more and I’m ready for it, ready to know everything but instead, she chokes back something that sounds like a sob and storms out of the room.

_Shit!_

I slam my head back down on the pillow, which causes another lancing of pain to go through my battered skull. I’d reacted to a sudden surge of anger towards Katniss from out of nowhere and now she’s gone.  I wouldn’t be able to explain it in rational terms but the idea that she might have used me in the Arenas hurts me so much, the pain is a physical twisting in my gut.  I’m unable to tie the events together that lead up to the birth of this feeling but it is there and it is the worst thing in the world - to feel things and not know why you feel them.  

Katniss doesn’t come back to visit again that day or the next after that.  Instead, a large, burly nurse called Darwin helps me out of bed and does physical therapy with me, stretching out my stiff muscles, massaging my cramps and in general helping me become comfortable with my mobility again. It's easier than I think because my body remembers how to function with the prosthetic even if my brain is completely at a loss with this new aspect of myself.  I can barely look down at the stump that was once my leg.  A powerful urge to make a break for it and just run in any direction that will take me away from this reality grips me so powerfully, it leaves me breathless.  I’m miserable, lonely and angry; a toxic mix all rolled up together and it is in no small part due to the way Katniss and I’d left things.

  


**XXXXX**

  


"Well, your vitals look good and your wound is healing very well.  I would like to do one more brain scan tomorrow and, if all the lab work comes back clean, I`ll recommend your release in three days’ time.” Dr. Aguilar gave me one of her warm smiles and despite my dislike of this place, I was sorry that I would no longer have cause to speak to her each day.  She was rational and direct in a way others in my life were not at the moment.  The only way I would truly get better was to get out and talk to people and hope something in those interactions would trigger my memory.  

“I don’t know how I’m going to live without these shiny grey walls, doc.” I quip.

Dr. Aguilar’s smile deepens and I’m struck by the woman’s beauty, how utterly wasted it appears to be in this place.  “Well, you’re in business because this is pretty much what District 13 looks like.  You’re going to get all the metal and grey you ever dreamed of.” She looks down at her chart before looking back up at me.  “I’m only clearing you for light duty.  No combat training or heavy weapons.  You will check in with me on a weekly basis.”  She scribbled a few other notes before turning her full attention on me.  “You have to take care of yourself and check in with me when scheduled, okay?  How are your visits with Dr. Aurelius?”

I shrug.  “Painful but strangely cathartic.  He has me talking about my family.” I sigh.  I just want to get out of here but I restrain the urge to scream in frustration.  “He’s trying to get me to remember things, to discover memory triggers.”

“It must be unbearable.” she says with an edge of sadness.

I nod and feel myself collapse back into my misery.

Dr. Aguilar studies me for a moment but I’m in no mood to try to figure her out.  So what she says next surprises me.  

“She comes every day, you know.  Asks about your progress and studies your chart. Then takes one of the guest chairs and just sits.”   I’m in too much shock to respond but Dr. Aguilar doesn’t wait for one.  “I’ll be back tomorrow, usual time.”

“Okay.” I mutter, unable to form another sentence but my head has already taken off without me.  

She comes every day.

_She killed my family._

She asks about my progress.

_She used me in the Arena._

She comes every day.

_She destroyed District 12._

My head is pounding with my confusion and because there is no way to distract myself from the litany of statements, I give myself over to them even though what I want the most is to not think about Katniss Everdeen every waking minute of my pathetic life.

  


**XXXXX**

  


The day before my release, I finally make the re-aquaintance of a certain drunk.

“Hey, kid. You look like shit.” he says by way of introduction.

Despite his fame for rudeness and embarrassingly drunken escapades, Haymitch Abernathy has taken me completely off-guard.  “Uh, okay, thanks.  Yeah, you look pretty shitty yourself.” I wasn’t really lying either - he looks like he’d slept in his clothes and simply rolled out of bed before coming to see me.

“It’s true, then.  You don’t remember a thing, do you?”

“Up to a point, no.” I watch him warily as he takes the seat next to my bed.  He steeples his fingers before his nose and just watches me for a bit before reaching his hand into his pocket and pulling out a thin, plastic square.  “Unfortunately for the sake of the rebellion, you need to remember things, though I gotta admit, you are one lucky bastard.  If I had a choice, I’d forget the last 25 years of my life.”  He tosses the square onto the bed in front of me.  “This might jog your memory. Not here, though.  When you get to your living quarters.”

“What’s this?” I say, eyeing the square suspiciously.

“It’s the broadcast footage of both Games and the Victory Tour.  Everything’s on there.  When you're finished, see me.”

“Will I really understand?” I ask, already intuiting that there were layers upon layers of deception in this tale and I didn’t want to draw the wrong conclusions.

“If you are confused, talk to me or Katniss.  We can help you clear things up.”

I let out a snort, as if it was the most absurd thing in the world that Katniss of all people could help me clarify things.  If anything, she would only confuse me more.  Haymitch notes my reaction and narrows his eyes.

“I know sweetheart is about as warm and fuzzy as a poison ivy plant but she saved your life on more than one occasion and there were things that only the two of you experienced, things that are not on that disc.  You’d be stupid not to rely on her, if remembering is what you really want.”

“She saved my life?” I say as I feel my heart quail at the memory of our last argument.

Haymitch looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a new eyeball.  “Keeping you alive is what set everything off!  It was her primary mission in the Quarter Quell, at the expense of herself, if necessary.  Hell, it’s the only reason you’re here now! Haven’t you spoken to Katniss at all while you’ve been in here?”  

I drop my head as the heat of shame spreads across my face.  “We did but we argued and I haven’t seen her since.  Rye told me she’d used me in the Games…”  My head begins to pound and I bring my fists up to my temples to relieve the pressure growing there.

Haymitch leans forward in his chair and catches my eye.  “Things got very complicated there for a while, kid.  But you’ve got to get the whole story before you go jumping to conclusions.  And Rye might be your brother and may even be trying to protect you but he has no idea what all went down.  Katniss is a lot of things but one thing you can never accuse that girl of is of having anything but your well-being at heart.” He gets up to leave.  “Watch the footage.  Then we’ll talk.”

As he disappears through the doorway, I finger the disc case carefully as if it will poison me if mishandled.  I need this disc and everything it contains.  I need clarity.  I shuffle out of bed and make my way to the wardrobe in the wall.  Inside is the crisp, grey uniform that’s been assigned to me.  With some clumsy fumbling, I dress, getting my prosthetic stuck in the pants leg and manage to stuff the disk in one of the oversized pockets without breaking some other part of my mangled body.  I glance at the mirror and shrink at the figure that looks back at me - a head full of half-shaved scruff trying to grow back into the hair I once had, a small adhesive bandage covering what remained of the infernal gash that was responsible for my current predicament.  I’ve lost weight and look gaunt and somewhat bent.  I’m hardly Finnick Odair but I won’t be deterred.  Slipping out of the doorway, I set off to find Katniss.  I’ve had enough of half-truths and speculation.  It was time I learned the truth about everything and, almost as important, the truth about Katniss and me.

 

 

  
  
  
  


 


	10. The Ache of You Beneath Your Skin

 

**Let’s just get to the story, shall we? Author’s Note at the end.**

 

**Chapter 10 - The Ache of You Beneath My Skin**

**_“No matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away.”_ **

**_―_ ** [ **Haruki Murakami** ](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3354.Haruki_Murakami) **,** [ **_Kafka on the Shore_ ** ](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6191072)

 

**And for the Anon who suggested _Rachel Taylor’s Eternity:_**

 

**_Tired and I’m wanting_ **

**_to embrace this haunting_ **

**_Feeling deep within,_ **

**_the ache of you beneath my skin._ **

 

**_You have my all._ **

**_You are my downfall._ **

**_Crush me, and keep me for eternity._ **

**_Break me in your hands, love,_ **

**_where I will always be._ **

**_Crush me, into pieces, all of these pieces._ **

**_Crush me, and keep me for eternity._ **

 

Note:  Italics are direct quotes from Suzanne Collins’ Mockingjay.  I own nothing regarding The Hunger Games Trilogy.

 

**XXXXX**

I escape Peeta's hospital room and his accusations,  made more painful by the kernel of truth they contain.  That conversation, and all the attendant loss it represents, crushes a budding hope in me. As a distraction from my troubles, I throw myself into my weapons training and whatever schedules and duties are assigned to me for the next several days.  A black rage bubbles up past my grief and nightmares, spilling over into daily life, fueling a maniacal perfectionism to become as strong and lethal as I can.  Where once I tasted only the desire for oblivion, I now thirst for blood.

In the confusing period after Peeta's emergence from his coma, I take account of all the tragedies that have taken place around me, starting with the most abstract and generalized injustices, ending with the most personal crimes against my people, my family, and finally me.  From the decades of oppression and the Games, to the destruction of District 12, to Peeta's amnesia, there is a fuse of anger winding through each individual event.  Peeta's outburst is the match that ignites that long fuse, chasing my inertia away and replacing it with an explosive need to act.

And yet, despite the anger that seems to radiate from me like a circular minefield, despite the compulsive training, the near-constant strategizing and talk of fighting, I still find myself outside his room, asking about his progress, studying his charts and sometimes just sitting, trying to reconcile that lost, wounded, boy with the boy who swore on his life that he wouldn't let me go under any circumstances in the Arena.  I try to square the Peeta who now believes that I seduced him for my own benefit with the Peeta who vowed he would bring all the tributes down on us if I risked my life at The Feast to fetch his life-saving medicine.  

Soon he will be released and I will have to let go of even this vigil and struggle to learn to live without his constant solidity in my life.

It's this torment that I carry inside as I go about my day. Gale comes with me to training and I can’t ignore the fire of rebellion that burns in him also, a fire whose kindling already smoldered from the day he first understood hunger, through the thread that led to his father's death and eventually losing me to Peeta.  His fuse is a living fire sizzling with combustion.

We meet daily in the training room, which looks like a giant storage building - benches line the walls over which hang every kind of weapon imaginable.  In addition to guns and rifles, there are crossbows, knives, swords and mock grenades. At the moment, Gale shakes his head as he brings my rifle in preparation  for our advanced, timed weapon assembly.

"Come on, Catnip.  You can do better than that," he goads me.  At first, he was faster than me and didn’t let me forget it, but lately, I’ve been able to keep up with him.  Except for today.

"You’re going to eat your words," I grouse, feeling particularly aggressive this morning.  Gale eyes me warily but chooses not to ask me what’s wrong as I fumble the assembly of the firing pin on my rifle.

He wraps his long arms around me, only just barely touching me.  ”If you hold down the pin with your thumb like this,” he presses the narrow, metal cylinder that will eventually make impact with a bullet, causing the projectile to burst out of the barrel and into the flesh of a waiting target, “and position the forefinger of the other hand over the trigger, it will slide in more easily.”

He leans into my back as he reaches for another piece of the trigger and his proximity causes  my concussion to throb, scattering my thoughts into a morass of confusion.  I move up to relieve myself of the discomfort of being so close to him.  He appears to sigh before pulling back but I cannot be sure because he returns to the business of his weapon with an impassive look of concentration.

I didn’t tell him about the substance of my argument with Peeta because it is too humiliating and skirts the obvious elephant in the room, the reason my mother hounds me to get examined, the reason everyone in District 13 stares at me as I walk by.  It seems the entire world understands somewhat the depth of my affection for Peeta except for the object himself, who has forgotten every embrace, including that most intimate one we shared on the beach. Gale hasn’t said a word, as if by not acknowledging it, the fact of that fateful night might simply disappear from neglect.  But I know a reckoning is coming and when it arrives, I fear that something will be burned away and what will remain afterwards will be something very different from what has been allowed to exist until now.  

Meanwhile, I’ve assembled the rifle in dismal time and taken it apart to try again.  Gale works quietly next to me, the pieces seeming to obey every command of his long fingers.  Suddenly the air becomes heavy with thwarted desires and unsaid things.

“I looked in on Peeta yesterday,” Gale announces abruptly as he sets his assembled weapon aside.

I can’t help but feel shock over his sudden interest in Peeta but I strive to keep my voice even when I ask, “Really?”

He looks up at the ceiling of the weapons room for a moment, then closes his eyes, chest rising and falling as if holding in a monolithic thing - something so big, it will claw its way out of his heart and reach out to swallow me.  “I needed to see what I was up against,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?” I ask in confusion.

“Catnip, I know things...happened...between you two.  When Peeta said you were pregnant during the interviews, I honestly didn’t think it was possible.  But there is the fact that you...and him…well, there was no mistaking what you guys were up to on the beach.” He rubbed his hands as if to wipe the sweat off of his palms.

“I’m not going to apologize for that,” I whisper quietly.

Gale shrugs.  “It wouldn’t matter to me anyway.  I just realized that I will never compete with Peeta the way he is right now.”

His words confuse me and it must show on my face because he struggles to make me understand.

“As long as Peeta is as broken as he is, I don’t have chance in hell with you,” he says in exasperation. “As long as you feel the need to protect him because of what happened to him, you are never going to shake yourself of him.  You’re always going to feel wrong about being with me.”

His words astound me and I am quick to snap at him.  “Are you suggesting that I feel the way I do about Peeta because he is...weak somehow?  That he needs protection?” I shake my head at him.  

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.  I don’t know how you got from your mindset before the Victory Tour to where you can be intimate with a person on national television.  That’s a giant change.  So it occurred to me that you respond to the fact that he needs you.  That is why you love him.  Because the Katniss I knew back in District 12 would not have loved him enough to, well…”

“Fuck him on live television? Are those the words you’re looking for?” I said in annoyance.  “Are you even listening to yourself when you speak? You are essentially telling me that I am with a person, risked my life for him, because I feel a need to protect him?”

Gale shrugs his shoulders.  It dawns on me that my best friend in the entire world appears to believe me incapable of love without the crutch of compassion.  While I am not averse to being described as a compassionate person - certainly, any positive description of my character is welcome - there is something profoundly insulting about this and my temper, which has been on fire since I argued with Peeta, burns hotter.

Gale continues, “See, I can’t lose a leg, I can’t lose my memory.  But I know you better than anybody else…”

Katniss shook her head. “You _knew_ me better than anyone else.  But things happened and I’m not the person who left District 12 two years ago.  This conversation tells me you no longer know me at all.”

“I don’t understand why you’re getting angry…”

“That’s it, isn’t it?  Of course you don’t understand!  Gale, Peeta and I have been through things together that you will never understand.  I am not the same person I was before. And to insinuate that I only care about Peeta because he is somehow weak or in pain?  He is strong in ways you will never understand!  Things that aren’t obvious to others - he is kind and compassionate and moral - these things count just as much as being able to hunt!” I said.

“Come on, Katniss!  You wouldn’t have had anything to do with his kind before the war!  They were no better than the Capitol!” he exclaimed.

“His kind?  Like, are they a different species now?  Do you forget that my mother is _that kind_?  Madge was _that kind_?   _We are all District 12_!  We were all one and the same when we were in the square, waiting to be reaped.  Just because Merchant folk weren’t starving doesn’t mean they didn’t suffer in their own way. And anyway, what the hell does that have to do with the way I feel about Peeta?”  I feel that sense of power grow in me again, my rage sending me to a place where I feel more myself than this agonizing suffering I’ve endured these last days.  “In fact, what are we even arguing about here?” I was close to shouting at this point.

“Nothing. Forget it.” Gale picked up his rifle to put it back in its spot.  

“No, it’s not nothing or you wouldn’t have brought it up!” I say angrily.

Gale turns around to look at me from his position near the bench. “You want to know what’s eating at me?  What possible advantage could you have gained in that arena by...doing what you did with Peeta?  On the beach?  What was the point?  Because if you were doing it for the sponsors, then I could understand that.  But any other reason makes no sense to me.”

“So, the fact that maybe I did that because of my feelings for him, that makes no sense to you?”  I suddenly feel an urge to run back to my room and burrow under the covers of my bed because my best friend thinks me incapable of being motivated by anything else but my own survival.  

Gale looks directly into my eyes, his large grey ones having become brighter and glassier than before. “Which brings me back to my original point.  I can’t compete with his suffering.  I will never have a chance with you until he gets better.”

“Gale…” I whisper. feeling something slipping away from me, something I don’t want to let go of. In fact, it becomes so overwhelming, I feel the throbbing pain of my concussion rear up in my head.  There are so many things to wrap my head around, most importantly the fact that he discounts that I could have feelings that would motivate me to do something as drastic as I did.  He does not see me as a girl capable of those kinds feelings that everyone else in the world seems entitled to have - and yet he wants those feelings for himself.  

I stand up to deposit the bits of my weapon on the table and only then notice that Gale, who I have never seen cry, has tears in his eyes.  I forget the entire argument for a moment as something instinctive lurches inside of me. I move to stand before him, watching as he tries to push those feelings away but I know him better than that. To stem his sadness, which has suddenly become unbearable to me, I move forward to press my lips against his despite his words of the last few minutes, grasping at that elusive thing as it floods my hands and dissipates between my fingers.   _We taste of heat, ashes, and misery._ The feeling is so unexpected, it takes us both by surprise.  Gale is the first one to pull away.  

“ _I knew you’d kiss me,”_ he says, his face ashen.

“How?” I say.

“ _Because I’m in pain,” he replies sadly. “That’s the only way I get your attention.”_  He moves in the direction of the doorway and pauses, looking at me half-way over his shoulder. “I’ll get over it.”  The doors of the weapon room swish open and he goes through them, taking the snapped thread of connection between us and leaving me more than just alone.

I remain standing there for what seems like forever, frozen to the spot, my mind a whirlwind of frenzied activity.  I wanted to resist Gale’s accusations, railing against the unfairness of his suggestion.  But it strikes me that despite my protests, he is able to predict with such accuracy my response. I see his hurt and I respond by trying to ease his pain. With that act, he has managed to throw into question every feeling, every decision I have made since the first Games.

And yet, there is that spark that ignites and swells up inside of me when I kiss Peeta that doesn’t kindle when I’m with Gale.  I may react to pain but I react to other things too, other things that I have only ever felt with Peeta.  It is too simplistic to say I am only moved by compassion.  It was not compassion that I felt the night on the beach or in the cave.  

One thing is certain - I know it will be a long while before Gale speaks to me again.  He is my best friend, after all, and one of the very few people I trust.  The thought that he will stay away from me leaves me sadly adrift.

**XXXXX**

I go straight to bed after our exchange, ignoring the rest of my schedule. I don’t check on Peeta. I don’t eat. I don’t even bother with training.  I hide.  And I try to sleep to numb myself.  Because the world has suddenly become very complicated and I am too weary to try to make sense of it all.

I manage to fall asleep for the entire afternoon and evening.  Even so, when Prim shakes me awake the next morning, I decide to ignore my schedule for a second day in a row.

I wait until Prim is done with her nursing duties and let her keep me company.  She tries to engage me in conversation but I only respond in monosyllables.  I realize that I have now lost my best friend in addition to losing Peeta and I feel utterly defeated.  My mind goes to dark places. District 13 suddenly takes on the aspect of a living grave - tall, grey walls buried deep in the heart of the broken earth, so far down that the blood that spills from the revolution above will take a long while to seep down to where we are.  But the blood of the dead will arrive and we will all be bathed in it.

I try to avoid being alone with my mother because I know she will want to examine me again and I just don't want to deal with that. I have this irrational conviction that I am not pregnant, as if my body is communicating this information to me in some magical way that is logical only to me.  

So it is with a great deal of relief that I wake up to find I have spotted my undergarments with blood.  One knot of tension in my heart loosens and I even go so far as to show my mother the evidence of my condition, evidence she receives skeptically.

"Katniss, that could be anything.  You can't conclude that you are not pregnant from three drops of blood!" she says heatedly when she is finally able to get me alone in our living quarters.

"My period has been really erratic the last two years.  Please, you're just being paranoid," I retort, the old resentment rearing up in me at her attempts to mother me considering our common history.

"What would it cost to have me or a doctor examine you?" she pleads.

I sigh with exasperation. “I'm due for another physical coming up after my next promotion.  I'll ask specifically for a pregnancy test.  But I am almost positive I am not," I grouse angrily.  My mother had no choice but to throw up her hands in defeat, muttering about how she can't believe I would behave so irresponsibly.

After I’ve recovered somewhat from my argument with Gale, I resume checking on Peeta every day.  It is a compulsion that I can’t resist.  I keep hoping someone will tell me that he has remembered everything, that he doesn't believe those awful things his brother has put in his head.  It hurts too much to think that he sees me the way Gale does and it triggers all of my defensiveness and anger. I want - no, I need to make sure that he is doing well. Even though my pride won’t let me go back to him, I continue to keep track of him as his discharge approaches.  My greatest fear is that once he is released, he will disappear into the maze of District 13 forever and what I fought so hard to save in the arena, I will end up losing in this underground prison.

**XXXXX**

I resume my routine but with somewhat less enthusiasm than before.  I complete my weapons drills and tasks, my progress very pleasing to Plutarch Heavensbee and President Coin.  It amuses me that my well-being continues to be an object of attention for the rebels, a realization that I embrace with mean-spritness, because I understand that my utility to the cause is far more important than my good health.  However, as I leave my training room one day to go to lunch, I freeze.  Peeta will be released soon and if we take on the role that has been built for us, we will likely be forced to appear in propos together. Our days of acting will not be over - we will have photo shoots and scripts and likely, all manner of dress changes and make-up. I suddenly feel ill – it is even worse than him disappearing.  It will be like the Victory Tour all over again, pretending that we are a couple when we most definitely are not.  I lose all desire for food and instead of continuing my walk to the dining hall, I double back to my room.

Prim catches me outside of our room, and blocks my attempts to go inside.

“No, you’re not,” she says with her sternest voice.

“Let me inside, Prim!” I snap.

“Don’t go snapping at me. We are going to eat something in the dining hall.  You’re wasting away. Look at you!” she says to me urgently.

“I’m not in the mood, Prim,” I say, with my most threatening voice. Prim, however, is unmoved.

“I am not in the mood to treat you when you finally collapse from hunger.  Let’s go.” She threads her arm in mine and I have no choice but to accompany her.

“Sometimes you don’t realize just how much like mom you can be,” says Prim with exasperation, but I feel the note of concern in her voice and I am suddenly ashamed of the way I’ve been treating Prim.

“How is that?” I ask but I know, if I excavate deep enough, I will know the answer.

“You get...discouraged...and then you shut down completely!  It’s so hard to talk to you when you’re like that,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry.  There’s so much happening to me and I can’t keep up…” I say, which is just enough of the truth without going into details, but Prim is not satisfied.

“You’ve been miserable for almost a month now!  And you haven’t spoken about Peeta at all.  I work with the staff at the Recovery Unit. I know things.” She says this a little too smugly and it makes me nervous.

“What do you know?” I ask.

“I know that you don’t actually visit Peeta anymore, you just check in on him and read his chart.  What happened between the two of you?”

The grey walls of the corridors pass us by in uninterrupted monotony as we continue our walk.  I debate whether to speak to my sister and realize how much I welcome the idea of opening up my heart to someone, especially someone I know will not hurt me.  For once, I want to depend on someone and if I can’t trust Prim, I don’t know who I’m going to trust.  Without warning, I pull her into a supply closet and close the door behind us, which catches her by surprise.  The metal shelves of the closet are bolted into the wall and everything is neat and tidy with all supplies clearly labeled.   .

“Oh, this is going to be good, isn’t it?” she asks wryly as she maneuvers in the small space,

“Sit,” I order. We both take a seat over a large plastic container that lies along the far wall of the closet.

“It’s a little complicated but Peeta and I had an argument,” I start.

Prim looks at me, purely befuddled. “Really? How do you argue with a guy that doesn’t remember anything?”

“Well, see, that’s it. Rye’s been filling his head with all kinds of stuff!” I blurt out and soon the words are falling out without filter. “Rye says I was using Peeta to keep myself safe but it isn’t true. I was trying to keep Peeta alive!  And so he told Peeta that I seduced him to keep his alliance and ensure my survival.”

“You mean, when you guys were on the beach?” asks Prim. Her words make my veins turn to ice and I am so embarrassed, I can’t look her in the eyes.

“I suppose you saw that?” I can’t hide my mortification as a blush creeps up my neck.

“Well, it was required viewing but I will say that after I puked up my dinner, I had to go outside for some air,” she chuckled as I stared at her in horror.  “Katniss, please, it was dark on the beach and they weren’t exactly going to put strobe lights on.  The cameras pulled out so it looked like you were in the middle of a really long make out session.  I mean, it was obvious what was going on but it wasn’t all in our faces.  Not that the announcers didn’t go on and on and on about it but it wasn’t that   _pornographic_ at all.”

I feel somewhat relieved as I recall that moment on the beach, how Peeta had tried to protect me even then. The memory brings up the taste of bitter, salty tears that I quickly swallow.  “Well, that’s it. It just made me so angry that he would think that and I haven’t been back since.”

“Does Peeta think that or is that what Rye thinks?” she probed.

“Well, Peeta asked me if it was true, if I had only kept him with me for my own protection,” I say slowly.

“So, he was just questioning you. He wasn’t really telling you that’s what he thought.” Prim’s brow becomes furrowed as if trying to understand.

“I…well…no.  I mean, he wouldn’t have asked if there wasn’t a doubt…”

“...A doubt his _brother_ put into his head, which he had the good instinct to explore by asking you.  Katniss, you always assume the worst about people, especially yourself. It makes sense that he would ask you _because he doesn’t remember_!”  Prim enunciated the words as if I were soft in the head, which I admit I still am since the symptoms of the concussion come and go.  “You lost it, didn’t you?” she asked in irritation.

I just nod in shame. _I am doing a remarkable job of feeling like shit today_.

“You know, I bet you any amount of money he is so sorry he asked you that, he can’t wait for the moment to get out and speak to you.”

“If he wanted to apologize, he would have done so already. He could have requested that I come down to him anytime,” I say petulantly, realizing at that moment how very much I desire just that.

“Katniss, have you ever seen yourself upset? You probably intimidated him or made him feel like he didn’t have a chance in hell to speak to you again.  He should apologize for repeating his brother’s idiocy but he is probably too ashamed to ask you to come to him.”

“How are you so sure?” I say, surprised at her maturity.

“Because, Peeta is not very complicated.  He lost some of his memory but he didn’t suddenly become another person.  He is not the type to say that to you and not apologize to you afterwards.”  Prim cocked her head to the side to look at her older sister.  “You should just apologize to him for over-reacting.”

I looked at her for a moment, considering her idea.  “I’ll think about it.”  No matter how calm and controlled I try to remain before Prim, the truth is that I start to feel a bit optimistic again. It isn’t a solution, really. I don’t know if I can do what she is asking. But I feel like I have options and that makes me feel suddenly so much better.

“I also had an argument with Gale,” I blurt out, deciding to throw caution to the wind.

“Wow, you’ve been busy!” she laughed.

“Oh, trust me, I’m not done yet.  But I think with Gale, there’s no resolution to that one.” I say sadly as I describe the exchange.

“I can’t say that I didn’t see it coming.  I think Gale is in love with you and has been for a while. Watching you fall for someone else could not have been easy for him,” Prim says gently.

“I know, but what can I do?” I ask.

“There’s not much for you to do except give him space. He might come around.”

“Maybe.” I pause and decide to discuss one final thing.  “And then there is the Mockingjay role I’ve been asked to take on.  I can’t do it without Peeta.  In fact, I don’t know if I can do it at all,” I say with exasperation. “But the rebels... I was already their Mockingjay, long before I was even aware of what I was doing.”

“You have to really believe that the revolution is going to make things better,” said Prim quietly.  I look at her - safe, well-fed, being trained to do something she seems born to do.  I’m not sure about Panem but if everyone has the opportunities that Prim now has, there could be no doubt that it was something worth fighting for.

Prim continued uninterrupted.  “If you can’t make this decision without Peeta, you had best think about a way to make things up with him.  You can’t decide anything together if you’re not talking.”

I found myself pacing. I was no good at apologizing. I don’t do remorse or regret very easily either.  But beyond the emotional situation between us, there were things I could not do without Peeta.  Besides his affection, his heat, and his goodness, I needed his clarity also. Like Prim, he could see to the heart of the most important things and articulate them in a way I could not.  The lack of him struck me all at once and I tasted, like a bitter draught, the depth of how much I’ve missed him.

“I’ve got some apologizing to do.” I said as I went for the handle of the storage closet.

“Not so fast!” Prim lept up from her spot on the plastic box.  “Before you go off on another mission, you are going to eat with me.” When I protested, she put a finger over my mouth. “Not another word!”  She pulled me along as she opened the door.  “Everything is easier on a full stomach.”  Finding myself yet again at my little sister’s mercy, I allow her to drag me to the dining hall.

 

**XXXXX**

 

We make our way to the dining hall to collect our tasteless meal of mush and overcooked vegetables and sit at our usual table, which is empty now because we are so late in arriving.  Prim describes her morning training, which includes simulations and advanced triage, something that rivets her completely. Half of my mind wanders from the conversation, as I attempt to decipher the contents of my lunch, eventually deciding that it was simply safer to swallow it without trying to taste any of the lumpy, beige mass on my plate.

I raise my eyes from the tray and blink several times in shock, my mind refusing to compute what I see before me.  At the doorway of the large room stands Peeta, blue eyes sweeping the tables, clearly in search of someone. Their restless trajectory ends when they settle on me. At that moment, I feel my entire body prickle to attention as Peeta strides awkwardly across the dining hall.  Objectively speaking, he is a mess - his blond hair is struggling to grow in around the purple seam of his surgical scar.  He has lost weight, having been in recovery for so long.  Amongst the things he has forgotten is how to walk naturally with his prosthetic, rendering his movements jerky and uncoordinated.  No, he is not the same boy who’d entered the Quarter Quell with me, nothing like the tribute who went down under Brutus’ stone.  He is different, in mind and body but I was not blessed with the gift of forgetfulness as he had been.  He is still the same Peeta to me and though it is no longer permitted, I long for him in the same way as before, perhaps even more so given his weakened state, a fact that gives credence to Gale’s accusation.  His appearance does nothing but make more acute what I too have lost when his memories were destroyed.

Though I had come to the determination that I should speak to him, I was in no way prepared to actually see him at that moment, especially given the absolute irony of the situation, that I had just spent the last hour talking about him with my sister.  My hair stare at attention at the sheer serendipity of it all and I wonder if the universe is conspiring with or against me at that moment.

I shift on the bench as he comes nearer, my face a furnace full of heat, people suddenly moving in slow motion around me. I’m heady with a rush of adrenaline. I try to breath deeply and evenly to stem the onslaught of terror that is ready to choke me.

He looks at me with his deep blue eyes, eyes that arrest me as if I am seeing them for the first time. “Hey Prim, Katniss.”

“Peeta!” exclaims Prim. “Have a seat.  How do you feel?”

He sits down somewhat awkwardly, maneuvering his leg under the table.  “Out of breath, honestly.  It’s hard to get around with this thing,” he taps his leg, “even with the physical therapy. But I got used to it before, so I suppose I will again.”

I turn from their banter and stare at some point in space.  My emotions war among themselves, each one struggling to dominate - anger, terror, fear, longing, excitement - it is so riotous that I have trouble concentrating on any one thing except for this - that he is here and whole and so very much like himself, it makes my heart ache.

“Katniss,” Peeta’s gentle voice penetrates my thoughts.  

“Hi.” I respond, the word choking in my throat.

Peeta appears pale and I wonder if it is his convalescence or if he is as nervous as I am. “Can I speak to you a moment?”

I nod my head, completely uninterested in my meal. I push the tray towards Prim.  “Finish this, will you?  I don’t want to get in trouble for wasting food.”

Prim smiles, almost giddy, and scoops a spoon of my gruel.  “Take your time. I’ll meet you back at our quarters.”

I give her a tight smile and turn to follow Peeta out of the dining hall.  I trip a few times on the benches, finding I am completely unable to keep my equilibrium.  The few people who still linger in the dining hall watch us, surely captivated by the Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12 so I keep my focus on Peeta’s back to avoid their stares.

When the doors swish closed behind us, Peeta moves us off to the side, the gentle pressure of his hand on my arm sending a thrill of heat through my skin.  I suddenly want to grasp his hand and pull him into my arms but I control the impulse for its complete inappropriateness. I might as well be Greasy Sae, as far as he is concerned at the moment.

“I couldn’t get out before today. If I did, I would have found you sooner.” he says with a slight tremor in his voice.  “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have said what I said and I’m sorry.” His face is sad when he says this.  “You saved my life.  I know that now.  You deserve so much more than to be accused of having ulterior motives.”

I take a deep breath.  “I was angry and maybe over-reacted so I’m sorry also.”

The nervousness fled Peeta’s face, softening his features.  “You were right to get offended. It was an offensive thing to repeat. Please, Katniss. Let’s start over again.” He pulled a square plastic case out of his pocket. “I want to understand.  I think of you and even though I can’t tell you why, I’m happier when you are around. There is a feeling surrounding you that I can’t rub away.”  He hands the disc to me. “These are the two Games we were in together – all the footage is here.  Everything I’ve forgotten.”

His words reach a tender place in my heart, a place I reserved only for him that I didn’t think I would access again.  “Why are you giving it to me?”

“Because I want you to know that I trust you.  I don’t know why – I can't give you any reasons but I _feel_ like I can trust you. Watch these with me. Make me understand  everything.” He reaches out to brush a wisp of my hair from my face.  “It might help me to remember and end this agony for both of us.”

I'm giddy with excitement.  It was only a few hours ago, I was ready to mourn his absence from my life forever and now, I have him within my reach.  My mind floods with images of our times together, washing over me so completely, I barely pull myself together to respond to him, “Of course I’ll help you. I already told you I would.”

Peeta smiles, the perfect combination of shyness and warmth and I melt inside. While I keep my face impassive, I swear that my eyes are speaking to him like two bright beacons, inviting him to get lost in them.

Recovering myself, I look at my schedule.  “It looks like I have the afternoon off. How about you?”

Peeta laughs now, showing me his blank arm.  “I have nothing but time, at least until they track me down.”

“Let’s go to my room, then, and make it as hard for them to find you as possible.” I smile finally, my first real smile in so long, my facial muscles feel tense.  Peeta eyes widen, becoming brilliant with emotion.  I stretch out my hand in a silent plea for his and pull him towards my quarters. It is the most thrilling feeling in the world to have his large hand captured in mine again and we interlock our fingers tightly as if we will never let each other go.

**XXXXX**

**First of all, I want to offer my apologies. I let this fic languish too long.  I have three WIPs that I started and a collaborative fic that never took off. That left me in the condition of having four WIPs altogether. I put _Katniss Everdeen:Demon Hunter_ on hiatus and I am trying to finish _Good Again_ so that I can dedicate my time to this fic and _The Pearl of The Antilles_.  It was a bad idea to start so many things.**

**In addition, I get side-tracked by writing challenges which I feel stretch me as a writer but consume my time and slow down updates - I just completed a submission for Fandom4LLS called _The Ivory Maiden_ (donations are possible until August 30th) and am completing a piece (maybe pieces?) called _Know That Your Place Is With Me_ for Prompts in Panem.  It’s looking like a frame story but it may not be as long as _If You Forget Me_.   I am also releasing a one-shot for the Everlarksongfic challenge called _The Cloth That Feels Like Love Itself_ in September.  Is it no wonder I don’t get to updating? **

**A million thanks to solasvioletta, bubbles1425 and peetabreadgirl for working so very hard on this chapter.  They are the best betas ever and no, you can’t have them!  I bow to the lovely nighlockinthecave for the beautiful banner and her incredible talent.**

 

  
  


 


	11. A Deeper Conversation

 

 

**_Is your skin as tan as mine?_ **

**_Does your hair flow side ways?_ **

**_Did someone take a portion of your heart?_ **

**_Now I'm learning you_ **

 

**_And if you don't mind can you tell me all your hopes & fears_ **

**_And everything that you believe in_ **

**_Would you make a difference in the world_ **

**_I'd love for you to take me to a deeper conversation_ **

**_Only you can make me...._ **

 

**_I've let my guard down for you_ **

**_And in time you will too_ **

 

**from _Deeper Conversation_ by Yuna**

 

**A/N at the end**

 

We make it back to my room, checking that no one is there to disturb us. Mom and Prim are scheduled to work their afternoon shifts, and I decide that my nuclear history teacher will forgive me if I sit out today’s lesson. I would be too giddy with a stupid kind of happiness to focus on his lessons anyway.  

 

The source of my happiness glances around our room, which is spartan even by District 13 standards.  I can’t imagine that Peeta’s would be any different, but it occurs to me that he has spent most of his time in District 13 in Recovery, so all this will be new to him.

 

“Is this your first day out of Recovery?” I ask, inviting him to sit at the small table that is flush against the wall but actually seats four comfortably.

 

“Yeah. I came right to you,” he says, folding his hands on the table. I study them - they are still broad and thick from a life of kneading bread and carrying heavy bags of supplies and the dust of gold hairs on the fingers glint in the fluorescent light.  “I just didn’t expect everything in the residential quarter to also be so monotonous.”

 

I clear my throat. “I think they went deliberately out of their way to make everything as bland as possible,” I quip and suddenly, an awkward silence falls between us. I try not to stare at him - it’s been a month, after all, since I’ve seen him and now my eyes are suddenly hungry, and I want to take my fill of him. I reminding myself that I shouldn’t manipulate his feelings. Instead, I stand to get two glasses from the tiny cabinet above the table and fill them with water.

 

“Thirsty?”

 

“Thanks,” he says as he accepts the glass and drinks heartily.  The silence persists and as usual, words fail me because I’m completely and utterly useless.  Thankfully, Peeta picks up the initiative and takes out the disc - a move I’ve been dreading since he showed it to me.

 

“I’ve been talking to Rye. He’s been able to give me some...unbiased information in addition to his overbearing opinion. But he can only do so much. I remember the Games from previous years. They’re...pretty traumatic.” His voice almost quakes in nervousness.  “So if you think it might be too hard for you, we can do this another way…”

 

His fear for my well-being touches me. He’s right - revisiting those Game will likely create nightmares so intense, I will lose these nights to them. But if this is the only way to get him back, then I have no choice but to go through with it.

 

“No, Peeta. We’ll do this like we’ve done everything else - together.” My voice catches and I struggle to stay calm. “But you have to realize, there was so much happening behind the scenes...it was all so complicated…my actions aren’t always...they don’t always...” I trail off helplessly.

 

“It’s okay.” He slips the CD out of its container and searches the room until he finds the screen embedded in the wall.  He has difficulty getting the television to work so I stand to help him, taking the CD from his hands. I realize my hands are shaking as I experience a sudden cascade of all the things that took place in those Games. The sensation of drowning is so powerful, I make every effort to not get carried away by it.  I’m overwhelmed and suddenly grateful for the structure the CD will surely provide.

 

“Are you ready?” he asks, watching me as if he can read my thoughts.

 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I respond as I pull a chair up.  “Let the Games begin…”

 

“And may the odds be ever in your favor,” Peeta jokes as Panem’s anthem began to play.

 

**XXXXX**

 

“ _I volunteer!  I volunteer as tribute_!” The words burst through the speakers and into the small room like the volley of cannon fire.  I grip the edge of my chair, trying to keep those words from echoing in my ear.  Peeta glances over at me and there is both admiration and another expression in his face I can’t read.  

 

“Rye told me you had volunteered for Prim, but there’s nothing like actually seeing it happen,” he says quietly when Effie’s voice pierces the air, interrupting our conversation as she calls out Peeta’s name.  On the screen, I am stoic - my face is shrouded in the well practiced, impassive mask where no emotion sneaks in or out. However, Peeta catches a glimpse of himself walking dazedly up the stairs to the platform, tears streaming down his face. I remember wondering if that was a ploy to appear weak, to disarm the other tributes, but now that I know him, I know the tears were real and he was not afraid to show his grief.  That took another kind of strength altogether, one that a person with a better understanding of him would have been able to grasp.  I was not that person at the time.

 

“You were strategizing from the beginning, getting Haymitch to do his job and mentor us.” I smile somewhat wryly at the memory of Peeta slapping the glass of drink from Haymitch’s hand, earning him a punch in the jaw, which I followed up with a credible attempt to stab our resident drunk in the hand. “We were a team, even then.” I say quietly when I tell him about the incident, recalling Haymitch’s words.

 

“ _I actually got a pair of fighters this year_ ,” he’d said as Peeta nursed his jaw.  “That’s when the real mentoring had begun” I told an astonished Peeta. And it was a credit to Peeta and the way he’d latched onto a goal and went after it with an intractable, dogged persistence.  Hadn’t he done the same thing in the Quarter Quell, planning from its announcement that I should be the one to live?  Those tears, intentional or not, were only reflecting the Peeta I would come to know later on.  

 

**XXXXX**

 

There are days in that brief interlude between Peeta’s dismissal from the hospital and what came afterwards where the footage raises even more questions than I would have thought possible. This is especially true when we watch the tribute interviews before the actual entry into the Arena.  

“In fact, every interview you gave, you managed to shut down the house.  It was for the best that you were always the last tribute because you were always a tough act to follow.”  I smile at Peeta’s uncanny ability to always say just the right thing.

“You weren’t that impressed if you pushed me into a vase,” he quips, half-jokingly, though there is an underlying sadness in his expression.

“I became angry because I didn’t know what you were up to.  I thought your confession made me look weak,” I say, now ashamed given everything that came afterwards.  “But Haymitch said you made me look desirable.”

“You wouldn’t need my confession for that,” he says, turning away and blushing furiously when he realizes what he’s just said.  

Unable to control myself, I reach out and thread my fingers through his even though I know I shouldn’t. He is not in the same place I am, not really.  It’s one thing to have a crush on a person from afar; it’s quite another to love a real-life person, to have a shared history, and to want them with all their defects in place.  Before he’d forgotten it all, he'd seen me at my worst and had still loved me.  Now, I’m back to square one, and this time I have to try to earn those feelings back, without the Games, without the events that once bound us so tightly together, without the great gestures and death-defying schemes. Just me. I’m not sure if I’m enough.

 

Peeta leans forward in his seat as he watches himself and the Careers interact with the girl from eight.  I realize what’s coming, but it’s too late for me to stop it.  When the Careers have had their sport with her, Peeta turns back and gives her relief from the wounds Clove has inflicted on her. Even here, the female tribute from District two does nothing to hide her sadistic pleasure with knives and flesh.  Gritting his teeth, Peeta finishes the job by slitting the girls’ throat.  On film, he turns away to follow the Careers. In my quarters, he looks like he’s about to throw up.

 

“I knew...I knew when I saw myself being reaped, that I would have to...have to fight...and kill…” He says this with a bottomless desperation that brings me out of my chair and on my knees before him.  “But to see myself...like that...I’m a monster!”

 

“No!” I shake my head at him. “You’re not!  You saved her from a slow and painful death. You were merciful…”

 

“I’m a murderer!” he practically shouts, leaping up from his chair, forcing me to get to my feet also.  Pacing the room like a caged animal, he is beside himself with self-loathing. “Worse, they tortured her, and I didn't do anything but stand guard!”

 

“Peeta, you’re being too hard on yourself. If you had intervened, they’d have killed you right then and there.  And the girl too.  She wouldn’t have escaped them regardless.” I stand out of his way so that he can have free range of the little space that my room has to offer.  “We all had to do things that we didn’t want to do when we were in the Games. That’s why they are so evil - we are forced to fight for our survival like animals.”  I try to capture his eye.  “Peeta, look at me!”

 

He stops his compulsive pacing and stares at me, his blue eyes wide and hollow with grief as I continue. “You weren’t even doing it for yourself!  You weren’t trying to win for your sake. Every decision you made in the Games was designed to keep me alive and safe.  Every risk you took was to protect me,” I approach him until I am mere inches from him. “If it’s any comfort at all, you didn’t hurt anyone else unless it was for self-defense and you always did it for me.”

 

Peeta stares back at me, his face relaxing somewhat. “I must have loved you a lot.”

 

I give a sad smile, my heart in mourning for what I can’t have, “You did.” My voice catches and I pretend to cough.  

 

“And did you love me?” he asks quietly.

 

“Everyone says I did. Everyone says that’s why I did what I did in the Arena,” I say, feeling  as hollow as his eyes were a moment ago.

 

“That’s no answer,” he answers. “But I suppose it’s not fair of me to ask.”

 

I nod, agreeing with him. It’s not fair to ask and anyway, what can he do about it if I do love him?

 

He presses the button on the television, the thin disc sliding softly out of the player. He replaces it in the case, handling it with such tender care, as if it will dissipate between his fingers.

 

“Thank you,” he says, though his back is turned to me. “It’s been a pretty intense day. I’m going back to my room to rest.”

 

“Of course,” I say reluctantly, my mind screaming at him to stay, to hold me because I know that girl from District 8 will appear in my nightmares tonight.  Instead, I make my way to the door and press the button. “Do you want me to see you to your quarters?”

 

Peeta shakes his head, his eyes unable to meet mine. “I have an idea where they are, now. If not, the place is teeming with people. Someone will help me.”  He finally looks up at me and the sadness I see is so profound, I almost throw myself at him in comfort.  “Maybe tomorrow?”

 

I nod.  “I...yeah. Just send me a message.”

 

With that, Peeta walks dejectedly down the metal corridor in search of his own compartment, leaving me desolated and utterly alone.

 

**XXXXX**

 

Peeta doesn’t come back the next day.  In fact, I don’t see or hear from him for a few days.  I understand though. It’s not everyday you watch yourself committing cold-blooded murder, and he has to adapt to this newfound piece of knowledge.  I wonder to myself what is worse - remembering yourself killing someone and knowing all the rationalizations you used to help you carry you through that soul-destroying moment or to see the evidence of what you are capable of and confront that part of your character with none of the context required to forgive yourself?  My heart aches for Peeta and I want very much to confirm that he is alright but my instinct or my fear tells me to leave him alone.  

 

So, I continue my schedule of training, going about my routine. My nightmares are such that Prim goes to sleep with mother because of my violent thrashing from my tortured dreams but  sometimes, I wake them anyway.  On the third day, as I leave training to take my hour Reflection,  I am surprised to find Rye in front of me.  I pull up short - I've rarely met anyone who dislikes me so openly and vapidly as he does and it makes my hairs stand on end.

 

I cross my arms and stare at him, waiting for him to launch into his attack.  

 

“What is the point of going through the Games with him again?” he asks without preamble, seething with a barely repressed rage. “Do you think that by having him relive all of it again and giving him your own version of the story, that he isn’t going to figure out by himself who you are?”

 

The stress of not seeing Peeta for three days comes to a head and my patience snaps. “I am way beyond caring what you think!  He asked to watch those Games. That was his idea, not mine.”

 

“And you jumped all over that, didn't you?  You need to give him a chance to heal and adapt to being here in District 13, to a new life, not try to force him to remember things that he would do better to forget. His constant obsession with you and the Games is keeping him from moving on!  He doesn’t know the real you - he still has in mind the girl he had a crush on since forever.”

 

I have nothing to say about that. I am filled with self-loathing and doubt, wondering how wise it is to make Peeta see these things that he’s mercifully forgotten about. I know I am doing this with him to get him back.  But it also frightens me because he will finally see that I’m selfish, manipulative, dangerous, and vengeful.  As soon as Peeta does sees me for who I truly am, I may wish he had never remembered anything.

 

I don’t tell Rye any of this. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “It’s hard to tell when he has nightmares,” I say instead, almost distractedly, remembering the rigidity of his frame as the only indication that he was reliving those horrible moments in the Arena.  “The only way you can tell is by the way he grinds his teeth together. If you catch it, don’t let him hurt himself. Wake him up.”

 

The anger fades from Rye’s face and he gives me a stricken expression, all fight having fled from him.  He stares at me and for a moment, we have this in common, this boy that, in our own ways, we both love very much. “He never was a thrasher, like Bannock and me.  As if he didn’t want to put anyone out, even when he was having a nightmare.”

 

I nod, because it’s so accurate, and I will myself not to cry, because I’m afraid if I start, I won’t ever stop again.  I just nod and walk past him, down the corridor and take the elevator to the level above mine, where I know there is an infrequently used supply closet. I suddenly don’t want to spend Reflection with my mother and sister. All I want is to hide away and not speak to anyone else ever again.  It isn’t until long after everyone has gone to bed that I crawl out from the smell of cleaning agents to wend my way back to our quarters.

 

**XXXXX**

 

The very next day, as Prim, my mother, and I ready ourselves, there is a knock at the door.  I pull it open and all the air rushes out of me.

 

“I thought of sending you a message but figured the exercise would do me good,” Peeta says sheepishly.

 

“Katniss, who is it?” my mother calls from behind the privacy wall that is set up to keep the sleeping area blocked from the entry doorway.

 

“It’s Peeta!  We’re going to take a walk, mom,” I say, looking at him meaningfully, to which he nods.  “I’ll see you at lunch!”

 

I press the button and allow the door to close on any potential protests. I unconsciously walk towards the mess hall. “Have you had breakfast yet?” I ask.  

 

“No.  I was hoping I could catch you and we could eat together,” he said and I can hear the nervousness in his voice.

 

An awkward silence hangs between us as we maneuver between people, each getting to whatever schedule has been tattooed on their forearms. Finally, when we are in an elevator alone, Peeta turns towards me.

 

“I’m sorry I went missing.  I needed time to process that girl’s death…” he begins but I stop him.

 

“You don’t have to explain. It was a shock and I should have prepared you for it,” I say quickly.

 

“No!  There’s no way you’re to blame. Rye is convinced that you are responsible for so many things but I watched most of the first Games, Katniss, and I don’t see it. All I see are two kids doing everything possible to survive.  I see a girl who came up with a crazy idea at the last minute and wrecked the entire system as we knew it with a handful of berries. That’s what I saw.”

 

“You watched all of it?” I ask and I wonder why I thought he would only watch that CD with me.

 

“Yes. Rye and I had a heart to heart and I agreed that I would watch the Games without your _influence_ , as he calls it,” Peeta says this apologetically but I take it in stride.  “Then, once I got my overall impressions, I should come ask you questions about what I saw.  It was the best compromise I could l make with him because I could tell that forcing you to watch the Games over again was a trauma for you too.”

 

“Just a little,” I say, which might be the biggest understatement of the century but he doesn’t need to know that.

 

“But I do have some questions. If you have a little time, maybe you can help me answer them?” He ends his statement with a question, a hopeful look in his eyes, and there is something so boyish and young about the way he does it that I can’t help but laugh at the expression on his face.  

 

“Well, since  you ask me like that, let’s go have something to eat and ignore our schedule today,” I say, the heaviness of the last few days falling away from me.  

 

“That sounds great. I do have one appointment I have to keep, though,” he says and I sense that it is something he is very proud of.

 

“And what would that be?”

 

Peeta smiles as he picks up an empty tray for each of us.  “Rye and I are going to go down into the kitchens to teach the cooks something about real baking because this,” he holds up a piece of dark, whole wheat bread that looks like the chaff was left on it, “...isn’t going to fly.”  He taps the bread on the metal edge of the serving counter.  “This may be the worst piece of bread ever baked. I can’t stand by and just watch this stuff get consumed by human beings.”

 

I smile at him. It is so much like him that I almost want to run away before I do something stupid like cry in the middle of the dining area. It was something the Peeta with his memories would do, and it makes my heart soar and ache at the same time.

 

To distract myself, I nod my head in the direction of our table mates.  “Oh, look, Johanna is staring us down. What do you say we go and bask in her sunny disposition?”

 

“It sounds dangerous, and somewhat intriguing at the same time. Lead the way.”

 

**XXXXX**

 

We return to my quarters and the questions begin right away.

 

“It appears that I joined the Career Pack to protect you,” he states as he skips to where I am trapped in the tree. “We didn’t preplan this tactic, did we?”  I’m surprised how quickly he’s picked up that he didn’t join Cato and the others out of desire for his own survival, but then again, he must have seen how he kept leading them astray from my path.

 

“No, that was entirely your decision. We’d split up, I think, so we wouldn’t have to fight each other if it came down to it.” I swallow hard at the idea of being forced to fight Peeta and am grateful for the twisted luck that lead to the berries and to being able to save his life.

 

 “That’s why I dropped the tracker jacker nest.  I thought you had really allied yourself with the Career Pack. I hadn’t realized what you were doing until I found you with the thigh wound.” I point at his prosthetic. "That’s how you lost your leg." Peeta instinctively looks down, rubbing the plastic through the fabric of his pants leg.

 

I click the remote and jump to the scene with him and the Careers stalking me at the tree before I drop the tracker-jacker nest on him. “From where I was sitting, I thought you were in it for yourself, so I behaved as if you were my enemy.  I wasn’t aware until afterwards that you’d been up all night, guarding the tree to make sure that I was safe.”

 

“I was very brave, I have to admit!” exclaimed Peeta, laughing.  “But then, so were you,” he adds, with a bit more seriousness.

 

“Not really,” I say, embarrassed now by his praise.

 

“Yes, you were!  You came for me after the rule change, even though you weren’t sure if I was in with the Career Pack or trying to hunt you down. You couldn’t completely trust me and yet you nursed me back to health,” he says in a tone that implies he is in awe of me.  I have nothing to say to that so he continues.

 

“That little girl, Rue…” he says, changing demeanor.  “She was so young.  That was another reason I stayed in my quarters.  I kept thinking of that Marvel boy spearing her, and I couldn’t get it out of my head.  You were so broken up by her death, there was no way I could put you through that again.”

 

I nod at him, truly grateful that I didn’t have to watch Rue die again. I see it already most nights in my dreams.  “Thank you,” I say.

 

Peeta nods, then continues. “I watched the footage from the Cave. I know we were both acting for the camera, but some of it seemed pretty real,” he says warily, watching my reaction.

 

I shift uncomfortably on the bed we are both sitting on, the space suddenly too narrow for the both of us.  “You were very sincere, at least most of the time,” I say.

 

“And you?”

 

I clear my throat, thoroughly unnerved but pushing the anxiety out of the way. What does it matter?  I’m not pretending anymore. “At that moment, I was worrying about saving us both. Sometimes I was acting. But sometimes I wasn’t.  I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it.”  I stood up, wishing there was a window I could walk to and look out of. “At a certain point, I think I even convinced you...that I...you kn...know...” I stutter, afraid to insinuate so much to him.  “When we returned to District 12, I was very confused about things.  You didn’t take it very well.”

 

I turn back to look at him.  “We didn’t speak for about six months.”

 

Peeta quirks an eyebrow in surprise. “Not the smoothest course for us, huh?”

 

I smile.  “Not really.”

 

Peeta stares down at the remote he holds, his brow furrowed in thought. “But you saved me.  Repeatedly.  For whatever reason you had then, you saved me, and I thank you for that.”  His eyes are so serious, he looks almost angry, though I know he is not. “I can see how the berries would have caused problems for the Capitol. No one’s ever done that before.”

 

“You weren’t sure what I was doing, but you trusted me,” I say, returning to that moment of decision, sorting through the memories.  I remember how angry I got when he ripped the tourniquet off, how ready he was to die. The moment hits me in the gut, forcing me to turn around and grip the back of a chair, holding on before it carries me away.  “But you did what I told you. It was a gamble, and it worked.”

 

“Yeah, it was a gamble. You could have also just killed me,” he says slowly.

 

 _Don’t!_  I plead with him wordlessly. I still haven’t figured out why I did it. I’ll never really know what combination of factors led me to that act of desperation that set off so many other events.  There was pique at the Gamemakers and the Capitol for putting me in that situation to begin with. There was self-preservation and the fact that I would be a pariah for killing my own district partner.  But there was also him - I couldn’t lose the boy with the bread. I couldn’t leave him in that arena because I would have spent the rest of my life trying to get him out of there. I would have left my life frozen there, in that one moment, and would have never been able to move on.

 

It seems so easy, now that he’s become the person I cannot live without.  But then?  I can’t be honest because I don’t know. I might never know. It will always be all those things and it will never be romantic enough or loving enough but it will always say something about who I am.  And I can’t change that.

 

“I could have. But I couldn’t stand to do it for too many reasons,” I say, releasing the chair.

 

“Katniss, I think that we both cared alot about each other, even then.” He tips his head in the direction of the screen. He’s fast-forwarded it and now I see myself pounding on the glass behind which they’ve taken Peeta. I’m shouting his name and screaming, in my filthy arena clothes, my dirt-caked nails, and matted hair, and I sink slowly down onto the chair.

 

“That doesn’t look like a person who was using me for her own protection,” he says quietly.  

 

I remember the agony of that moment, how pale and still he looked lying on the silver table, tubes and wires springing out from his entire body.  

 

“For a moment, I thought the doctors were part of the Games and there to hurt you," I say, almost to myself. "I attacked them and they had to throw me out of the operating room.” My voice catches and I know this time, I won’t stop the torrent that will come. I just hope I won’t be ridiculous and blubbery when it happens.  “I couldn’t stop watching them work over you. Your heart stopped twice, I think.” I turn to look at him and I know that I have the look of a morphling about me - wide, saucer-sized eyes, a frown that pulls my entire face down under the weight of fear. “I think I went crazy because I attacked the door again. I stopped thinking because you were in there and if you died...if you died…”

 

He pulls me towards him in a moment and I realize his arms are around me. All the fear, the grief, and the longing well up inside of me and the tears I’ve been fighting for days spill out. I’m not sobbing - I’m proud of that at least - but I'm in pieces and he is holding me with his strong arms and I am safe and sound, enough to let this agony out of my chest. I’m back on the train during the Victory Tour and his arms are holding my sanity together again and even if it isn’t really all of him, for a moment, I can pretend that he’s back in his entirety.

 

We don’t speak. Peeta must sense that motives are no longer relevant, or maybe, because he knows me better than anyone, even now that a portion of me has been scooped out of his brain, he intuits all these things and figures it’s not worth articulating. Anyway, I’ve done enough since then that would please even the most romantic heart.

 

He doesn’t pressure me for any more explanations after that.  Instead, he pulls back and gently places his hand in mine, running his finger over the veins that creep up the back of it.  It’s soothing and I realize, even after all the tears and abandon, that I’ve been holding my breath and this gesture causes me to exhale. I almost want to thank him - for being the same even when half of his mind is gone, for still seeing the good part of me, and accepting the bits I’m not proud of.  This remembering is hard, but I’ll endure it if it helps him recover his memories.  Yet even without that part of him in place, I know he’s on my side, even if he doesn’t quite know why, just as he was when he took the handful of berries from me. And that means everything to me, because I can get through anything as long as he is still my ally.

 

**XXXXX**

 

After some time passes, he makes a confession to me.  

 

“You know, the interviews with the families of the final eight?  I keep seeing my parents and my brothers and I can’t stop watching them,” he says with open grief.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say. We haven’t let go of each other’s hands and I squeeze it reassuringly. I really want to take him in my arms and sing the meadow song, like the one I often sing to Prim when she needs of comfort but instead, I just hold his hand.  “I know you’re just trying to hold on to what’s left of your family.”

 

Peeta opens and closes his mouth as if to speak but I just shake my head.  Eventually he gives up.  There is too much pain in processing a loss so great and some things really don’t have words. I, of all people, know that very well.  So I search for something to straighten among my already neat counters and drawers and leave him to his quiet mourning.

 

When my mother returns to our quarters mid-morning, she find us both in a reflective silence and is surprisingly accommodating as she greets Peeta. Even with the memory loss, Peeta is still the same, considerate soul and even offers to leave to give us privacy.

 

“Don’t leave, dear,” she says gently. “You’re practically family.” She tousles his hair, which elicits a soft chuckle from him.  The sound of it makes me happier than I’ve been in a long time, and it must show on my face, because I catch my mother smiling at me with a knowing kind of look before taking her leave and returning to her schedule.    

 

“You know, little by little, we’ll put all the pieces together again,” Peeta says when my mother leaves.  “I just feel, when I’m with you, everything fits.” He casts his eyes down and I see the bloom of pink spreading across his cheeks. I miss his strong arms warding off my nightmares.  I miss the sound of his heartbeat beneath my cheek as I rest on his broad chest.  Though mutts aren’t chasing us down and deadly fog might not be overwhelming us, I will never feel as safe as I felt in his arms. But I can’t have that. Not yet. But maybe, one day, he’ll remember enough to want that too.

 

The rest of the morning meanders away in casual conversation until our scheduled meal time, when we take our time walking hand-in-hand.  I have the mad idea that we are the only spot of living color in the grey sea of District 13.

 

  
**XXXXX**

 

We sit at the usual table where other District 12 residents sit. I’m surprised to see Delly Cartwright today. We were never really close friends but she had always been a sunny, happy person with everyone she met. Instead, I had spent more time with Madge Undersee, if I spent time with anyone at school.  

 

The thought of Madge brings a pang of sharp pain to my chest. Neither she nor her family made it out of District 12 and my heart suddenly aches for one of the few people I could call a friend. I run my fingers over my Mockingjay pin as my mind floods with memories of her - playing the piano, trading with Gale for the strawberries she loved, her gift of the pin before I left for the first Games.

 

I look up to see Peeta next to me, regarding me with penetrating clarity, asking wordlessly if I’m alright.  I school my features, which have darkened in concentration and smile reassuringly at him, a gesture that may not convince him but he is intuitive in knowing not to push the issue.

A glance down the table shows the Hawthornes seated in their chaotic group.  Rory and Vick bicker over something while Hazelle tries to feed Posy. I just catch Gale’s grey eyes as they flit away from me, his expression unreadable and hard as he scoops a spoon of vegetables from his tray and gives Rory and Vick each a serving.

“Katniss!” Delly chirps happily.  “I’ve been assigned to assist Prim in the hospital unit.”

“Really?” I ask.  I can’t help the happiness I feel when I think of Prim at work, doing all the things she could never have done in District 12.

“Oh, she has such talent!” Delly replies.  “Everyone talks about her.” She drops her voice, eyeing the other diners in the large mess hall. “I think that, being from District 12, they probably thought we were no better than starving, cave people.  We sure showed them!” She laughs happily as she takes another portion of gruel, swallowing the bland concoction with a grimace.  

Peeta, catching Delly’s expression, chuckles at her. “Even Greasy Sae can’t make this taste good.”

“Oh, I know. I’d give anything to have some of her squirrel soup.  Too bad you can’t hunt for squirrel, Katniss,” she says breathlessly.

I’m about to answer but am interrupted when Finnick and Johanna sit down across from us, next to Delly. Johanna takes the sliver of space between Finnick and Delly, which constrains an irritated Delly to move over and make way for her.  

As we make small talk, I watch Finnick, who has taken to twisting his fingers when he does not have his rope in hand.  He is trying his best to get better, but the signs of the emotional strain from Annie’s captivity are exposed by his gaunt appearance and the dark circles that have settled around his eyes.  Peeta smiles kindly at him and makes an extra effort to be gentle, not because he remembers any of his interactions with him in the arena but because of what I’ve shared with him.  We haven’t gotten to the Quarter Quell Games yet, but he knows we were all allies and Finnick saved his life.

While they are speaking to each other, Johanna leans forward and whispers,  “So, how’s Peeta’s head?”

“He’s getting better, but he doesn’t remember anything yet,” I respond in a low voice.

“That sucks,” she says as she tears a piece of bread and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly.  “That’s not stopping him from following you around like a whipped puppy, though,” she says suggestively.  However, instead of embarrassing me, I feel a small thrill of excitement course through my body.

“Finnick’s not sleeping, and he barely eats,” she continues abruptly, her harsh tone not quite able to hide her concern as she glances over at him. “They have him back on the morphling,”

“Still no news about Annie?” I ask because there’s no question why Finnick is falling apart.

Johanna shakes her head.  “The last we heard, she was rounded up with other Victors and taken to the Capitol.  I just don’t know how long he can keep it together.”

There is small burst of laughter next to me as Delly and Peeta chuckle at something Finnick says.  At that moment, he almost looks like himself - his wide smile, still-tanned skin, the gaunt but chiseled features - they all hide the message in his eyes.  The sorrow and half-crazed moments of panic are written in the faint, dark circles, lines of intense worry spreading like clawed fingers up to his hairline.  Finnick is in pain, and it isn’t the kind that morphling will take away.

My thinking is interrupted by the television screens around the dining area as they light up. I watch as everyone’s eyes swivel towards the now visible symbol of the Capitol while the anthem floats in over the speakers.  I’m almost bored and look away, expecting the usual loop of war footage and propaganda when Caesar Flickerman appears, looking painted and sparkly, with a pink undertone to his skin and hair.  The programming has all the makings of a propaganda short, much like the commercials that often appear between regular programming.   The slogan in the background catches my eye - _One Panem._

As my eyes scan the stage, I observe a line of people standing in the background, each dressed in white, all wearing variations of the same blank expression.  I realize they are Victors, especially when Flickerman begins to call out the names of each of them -  Bijoux Renuart, from District 1, Enobaria Cassius from District 2, and Jules Kalo from District 3.  The highly decorated interviewer gives them an opportunity to speak as they encourage the Districts to stay loyal to the Capitol, who cares for them like a parent cares for a child.  Angry murmurs spread throughout the mess hall as the residents of District 13 react to each of the Victor’s words, but I am swallowed in shock as the next name is called.

“Annie Cresta, District 4.”

I gasp, but it is nothing like the groan of agony that emerges from Finnick when Caesar pulls her forward.  There is no description for the expressions that race across Finnick’s face. He is, at once, shocked, relieved, horrified, and grief-stricken as he watches the camera shift from Caesar Flickerman back to the Victors, lingering momentarily on her face as everyone waits for her to speak.

She’s perfectly styled, her brown hair brushed out softly around her shoulders. She wears a soft, white dress with a discreet neckline embroidered with pearls.  Around her neck is an elaborate choker that is breathtaking in its design. However, something about the way she jerks her head to the side knots my stomach with dread.  

“Annie!” Finnick shouts, not a piercing, loud sound, more like the moan of a dying animal. “You’re alive!”  He approaches the suspended screen with Johanna, who never leaves his side, staring at the crowds in the dining hall with slitted eyes, daring anyone to come close to them.  

“So, Annie,” Ceasar says with exaggerated kindness, as if she would dissolve in his hand if he is not careful. “What would you like the people of Panem to know?”

She opens and closes her mouth several times to speak. When the words emerge, they are breathless, barely above a whisper. “We…we shouldn’t…fight.  We shouldn’t rebel.” She pauses to steady her voice. “Finnick...Finnick wouldn’t like it.” Her voice catches when she says his name.  It’s heartbreaking to watch the way her tremulous lips caress his name, and the equal vulnerability with which he responds.

“No, we’re sure he wouldn’t approve of the fighting. Thank you,” Caesar says as he leads her back to the line of Victors and continues his interview with the Victors from Districts 5 and 8.  “A united Panem is a victorious Panem!” Caesar calls out at the conclusion in that saccharine, soothing voice that makes me want to bury a butter knife in his neck.  The screen fades to black, leaving Finnick staring at the screen as if it would bring her back into view.

The reaction in the mess hall is instantaneous, with shouts and accusations of betrayal launched like bombs onto the floor.  Finnick is still fixated on the screen but Johanna’s eyes trail the sea of faces, her face becoming more and more twisted in anger.  Gale, who stood to study the program, stares intently at the ground in deep thought. I almost give in and ask him what’s he thinking but Peeta approaches Finnick and I can’t help but follow as Finnick’s hands seek out the short piece of rope in his pocket to compulsively handle it.

“She looks healthy, at least.  Doesn’t she?” He looks around at everyone, but his eyes are wide and empty and I wonder if he actually sees us at all or if he doesn’t still have Annie before his eyes.

“She does,” Peeta says soothingly.  “They’ll use those Victors as propaganda.  They won’t hurt them.”

“That’s not true!” Finnick says, perhaps with more force than he intended.  “They have her because of me!  There’s no other reason for her to be in the Capitol. She doesn’t know anything about the revolution.”  Finnick becomes agitated and sits on the nearest bench, trying to get himself under control.  “Snow will have her killed if he thinks it will hurt me. He takes pleasure in seeing his enemies suffer.”  

“The Capitol can’t be sure you’re here willingly.  You could be a hostage for all they know,” I suggest weakly. However, we both know it’s a lie.  I remember his words in the arena - _Do it, Katniss_!  There was no question what he was referring to.  I become nauseous at the thought of what could happen to Annie and glance over at Peeta, wondering again what I would have been reduced to if it had been Peeta who’d been captured by the Capitol instead. I’m filled with pity for Finnick, wracking my mind for a solution to his problem.  

I can’t help but capture Peeta’s hand and squeeze it tightly to reassure myself that he is actually here, next to me, and not in some squalid prison.  There’s terror, the sudden pang of imagined loss, and longing - there’s always that too.  I make to release his hand but he holds on tightly and doesn’t let go.  I don’t know what’s going through his mind but his eyes, always that surreal blue despite the odd hair and pale skin that’s become even lighter with lack of exposure to the sun, appear to flash with excessive emotion. It’s all I can do to keep from hugging him to me.

“Katniss. Peeta,” Gale says from behind, startling me with his approach. I watch his eyes land on our joined hands before they return to look at his communicator cuff. “You’re requested in Command,” he says gruffly and turns stiffly to walk towards the exit of the mess hall, fully expecting us to follow.

Finnick glances between me and Peeta, his eyes lingering also on our joined hands.  “You don’t know how lucky you are, Katniss!” he says.  Finnick’s eyes become unfocused, and I know he is about to lose it again.  Johanna, sensing this also, helps him up and leads him out of the hall in the direction of the medical unit.  Gale nods as they go and waits patiently for Peeta and me to catch up to him.  

We make our way silently down the corridor, boarding an elevator that takes us down further into the depths of District 13.  Gale faces the door, his back rigid as Peeta and I stand behind him, each of us wrapped in the chaos of our own thoughts.  

 

By putting the Victors in their anti-war campaign and forcing them to declare their allegiance to the Capitol while simultaneously encouraging the Districts to stand down, Snow has essentially sealed their fates. I know the anger I had just witnessed in the mess hall would be taken out on them if the rebels won, regardless of what torture or atrocities had been committed against them to draw their words out. My skin crawls at the idea of what kind of justice might be meted out on them.  They would be treated no better than Snow and the Capitol citizens.  Seventy years of rage and hatred would fall on their shoulders, whether they were put on that stage willingly or not.

I think of Annie, finally freed after the war, only to turn around and be captured, tried, and executed by rebels for treason.  Peeta, meanwhile, watches the expressions on my face as they change but doesn’t say anything. We’ve stalled long enough.  Annie’s appearance has prompted Coin into action, and it will be all we can do to keep from hurtling headlong into a situation for which we are completely unprepared.

 

**XXXXX**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! It's been a while since I've updated and I would love to hear from all of you :).
> 
> Things are going to pick up from here and I can’t wait to share it with you!
> 
> Many thanks to my fellow betas and best writing buddies ever, ever: peetabreadgirl, solasvioletta and bubblegum1425 for their hard work. They really made this chapter into what it is with their feedback. This looked like something else entirely before they got their hands on it!


	12. The Ashes of District 12

 

 

**_“Violence shakes my dreams; I am so cold,_ **

**_Chilled by the persecuting wind abroad,_ **

**_The oratory of the rodent's tooth,_ **

**_The slaughter of the blue-eyed open towns,_ **

**_And principle disgraced, and art denied._ **

**_My dear, is it too late for peace, too late_ **

**_For men to gather at the wells to drink_ **

**_The sweetwater; too late for fellowship_ **

**_and laughter at the forge; too late for us_ **

**_To say, "Let us be good to one another"?_ **

**_The lamps go singly out; the valley sleeps;_ **

**_I tend the last light shining on the farms_ **

**_And keep for you the thought of love alive…”_ **

 

**From _Night Letter_ by Stanley Kunitz**

 

**A/N at the end**

 

**XXXXX**

When the doors of the dull, gray elevator swish open, Gale leads us to the Command Center where I’d met with Coin when I first arrived in District 13. The table and chairs are still unremarkable, and the screens still blink with their troop and supply movements. Coin and Heavensbee sit together as if they’d never left their spots, conferring with each other when we enter the room, interrupting their conversation.  Haymitch also sits at the table, but he is staring at a screen before him, rubbing his chin as if in speculation and therefore doesn’t pay us any mind right away. Heavensbee, with the joviality of a Gamemaker planning his next trap, indicates to the chairs on the other side of him and Coin and asks the three of us to sit down.  It’s only when Peeta, Gale, and I settle into our chairs that I notice Boggs standing quietly by in the shadows, studying a screen before joining us.  

Heavensbee smiles at us in greeting as Coin begins speaking.  “Katniss, I’ve been tracking your progress in training and am very pleased at how quickly you’ve recovered from your injuries.”

I straighten in my chair, caught off guard by her attempt at kindness. “I’ve been...working hard,” I try not to stammer as I respond, suppressing my impatience. After all, we all know what she’s really after.

“Indeed. Your commanding officers have been very complimentary.  And Peeta...” She turns towards him. “Dr. Aguilar reports that you are also doing well.”

Peeta nods.  “I’ve been in good hands,” he responds gallantly, and I admire his ability to project calm and poise toward the cold, brittle woman before him.

Coin looks at us both before getting to the point. “Every District is in open revolt against the Capitol. There are wins and losses on both sides but rebel commitments have shown signs of flagging. This is dangerous, as you know.  The moment the Capitol senses weakness in the alliance, it will most assuredly be exploited, with catastrophic results for the rebelling Districts.  Effectively, the revolution will be lost. It won’t be long after until they claim military victory.  When that happens, the consequences for the rebelling Districts will be grave, indeed.”

 

Boggs pulls up a report on his screen and begins to debrief us on the status of fighting in the various Districts. “We are holding our own in 4, 7 and 11. We’ve had setbacks in 5 and 6.  If we don’t advance into District 2 soon, we will be fighting a winter war.”

“Peacekeepers are better equipped and supplied for that kind of fighting,” Gale interjects, and I suddenly understand his role as another persuasive element in favor of the rebel cause. As if sensing that I am now questioning his loyalties, he does not look me in the eye.

“You want us to help you fight?” Peeta asks.

Coin smiled.  “Not necessarily. As I explained to Katniss, we need to win the hearts and minds of the people of Panem. Putting Katniss, or you, on the battlefield, would not be the most effective way to accomplish this. The rebels need a rallying point, a figure - or, better yet, two...” She looks meaningfully at Peeta. “...to look up to and lead them towards unification.”

“That’s why we were rescued,” I say, more for Peeta’s benefit than anyone else’s.

“Yes,” Coin answers bluntly.

“Well, not just for that.  You are beloved Victors, and we wanted to save as many of you as possible,” babbles Heavensbee but Peeta, Coin and I are not looking at him.  We know he is trying to gloss over the harsh fact that, had we not represented any worth to the rebels, we would have most likely been abandoned in the Arena.  We got out because they need us.  

“We’ve only ever gone into the Arena with one objective - to keep each other alive,” Peeta states calmly, but there is steele in his voice.  “There’s no question that Panem would be better off without Snow’s regime but what would be the consequences of a war?   What price would we pay for the type of large-scale rebellion you’re looking for?”

 

“Freedom is worth any price,” Coin retorts with equal conviction.

 

“Freedom at the cost of annihilation?  Freedom at the cost of wiping each other out?”  Peeta looks directly at Coin. “We’ve gone through this already - and almost went extinct from fighting one another in the process. Now our numbers are fewer than ever.  This time, we could end up killing ourselves off for good.”

 

“I understand your concerns but Katniss has become the Mockingjay for the rebelling Districts.  They are looking to her for leadership because they are ripe for freedom. They are willing to run the risk of extinction if the alternative is oppression,” Coin states eloquently.  “Will you be the one to ask for a cease-fire, after the sacrifices they have already sustained for the cause?”

 

“You’d be considered a traitor,” Gale says abruptly, watching us with an unreadable expression.

 

I move forward in my chair, looking at everyone in turn as I speak, “We didn’t know there was a rebellion. We didn’t know that there was a plot to free us from the Arena. All we ever wanted was to save each other.” I feel Peeta’s hand slip over mine under the table.  “We’re tired of being pieces in other people’s games.”

Coin colorless eyes grow colder as she takes a deep breath, visibly steadying herself.  She casts a quelling glance at Plutarch and Haymitch before she speaks again. “Whether you cooperate with us or not, you were rescued by the rebels. In the eyes of Panem, and Snow in particular, you are now part of the rebel cause. If you were delivered to the Capitol today, how long do you think you would survive to explain the distinction?”

I feel my own eyes narrow in response to hers. “Is that a threat?” I say in a deadly calm voice.  Peeta’s hand squeezes my thigh under the table but otherwise he says nothing.

“We are not barbarians,” she replies icily.  “However, I have to wonder if you appreciate the position you are in.”

“Have you tried negotiating with the Capitol?” interjected Peeta, attempting to diffuse the tension in the room and redirect the conversation to less dangerous waters.  “A civil war will decimate our population.”

Boggs snorts involuntarily while Gale’s face, previously impassive, becomes hard and angry.  It’s clear he can’t restrain himself as he answers with the venom of hatred lacing his voice.  “Peacekeepers are shooting to kill and taking no prisoners.  District 12 was wiped out - men, women and children,” I feel Peeta flinch next to me.  “Snow isn’t interested in negotiations. He wants full, unconditional surrender. No prisoners of war. No compromises.  You want to try and change his mind?”

I glare at Gale, who suddenly appears like a stranger to me.  Meanwhile, Haymitch, who has been listening to the entire exchange, interjects, “Sweetheart, if the rebels lose, we can be certain that Snow will make the Hunger Games look like a Capitol birthday party. There is no end to the pain he will visit on the districts after a rebellion of this scale.”

 

I find it hard at the moment to imagine what could be worse than the District’s forced participation in The Hunger Games. “Peeta and I need to talk about it,” I say with a determination I do not feel.

 

Coin nods.  “Please, do. In the meantime, Boggs has organized a transport and security team for a small excursion.  We would like you to join him.  Gale, I think you would do well to accompany them also.”

Peeta stiffens.  “Where?”

“District 12,” answers Plutarch with the zeal of one who is about to orchestrate the climax of a dramatic performance, practically rubbing his hands in expectation. It turns my stomach.

 

“Now?” I ask, incredulous at the turn of events and begrudgingly admiring Coin’s ability to catch us by surprise.

“It’s time you saw what Snow has done to your home,” Coin says, effectively ending the meeting.

**XXXXX**

 

The journey to District 12 is more of a production than I could have imagined. Not only do we board a hovercraft with Boggs and a heavily armed security detail, he explains that we will be flanked by another four aircraft called fighter jets.

 

“Hovercraft are fine, but they are heavy and hard to maneuver, even with the hyperdrive.  Jets move faster and have better range in a tighter space.  They make for a good escort.” He says all this as he checks our shoulder harnesses.

 

“This is a risk, isn’t it?” Peeta asks as he reaches over to tug at my harness again, eliciting a smile from Boggs.  

 

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Peeta. I’ve strapped people in before.” He turns and takes the seat across from us.

 

“Never hurts to double check,” Peeta responds good naturedly, but there is more than just caution in his action; something that smacks of distrust.  After our meeting with Coin, I can’t help but feel the same way about everyone.  It’s like we’re in the Arena again, with only each other to depend on.

 

“This,” Boggs says as he attends to his own harness, “is a very high-risk operation. If the Capitol suspects that you, of all people, are paying a visit to 12, Snow would bring the Capitol Air Command down on our heads.” Boggs checks his holster, which holds a weapon similar to those carried by Peacekeepers. It makes me shiver with repulsion. “I’m pretty confident Snow would mobilize his entire army if he thought he had a chance of getting his hands on you.”

 

I want to protest that I don’t exactly have a choice, but if I’m completely honest with myself, I would have wanted to make this trip eventually. Until now, the destruction of District 12 has taken on the aspect of a nightmare, with all the horrific qualities of a surreal reality that is not truly mine. Even with the pictures, the clear evidence of refugees, including my mother and sister, there is still a part of me that refuses to accept the destruction of my home and most of my people.  I keep expecting to be able to leave District 13 and walk into my home in Victor’s Village or the tiny Seam home I once shared with my mother and sister.

 

Haymitch settles closer to the pilot, sitting by a screen that is flanked on his left by a similar set-up as Boggs’. He glanceS occasionally at me but I maKe sure to not catch his eye.With a brisk competence that I did not know he possessed, he readS off the coordinates to the pilot, exchanging other incomprehensible information that is surely important to anyone who could understand what he is saying. It occurs to me that he had to have been part of the rebellion for a good, long time to have that kind of ease. Somehow, instead of making me feel even more safe and grateful for it’s contribution to my safety, it just served to make me more distrustful.

 

Behind Haymitch’s seat, Peeta sits quietly, the only movement the grinding of his teeth, causing his jaw to clench and unclench.  I can only imagine what this trip represents for him, in some ways, more so than for me, Gale and Haymitch.  His entire family, with the exception of Rye, has been wiped out and now, he is being forced to confront what that means. No matter how agonizing this is for me, it must be unbearable for him.  I reach over for his hand, no longer self-conscious about this small action.  With a half-smile as my reward, Peeta squeezes my hand back and clutches it throughout the entire trip to District 12.

 

Gale, who hasn’t spoken to me since we left the Command Center, stares resolutely ahead, fixated on the shiny, metal bars that rise from the back of the seat before him.  I feel a stab of remorse at the fact that, on this, such a momentous occasion, I have to subsist with so little interest on the part of my best friend. I miss his support and understanding, his unflinching willingness to go through anything with me. I mourn his steadfastness even as I thrill at the feel of Peeta’s skin against mine.  

 

In the end, it’s Peeta’s hand in mine that keeps me sane as the hovercraft hurtles to the mass grave that was once home to our people.  

 

**XXXXX**

 

We land on what was once the open green of Victor’s Village, one of the few patches of town that is somehow intact.  Peeta and I descend from the hovercraft while Haymitch, Gale and Boggs remain on board, continuing to scan our surroundings to ensure our safety from above, ready to snatch us up at a moment’s notice.  As my feet hit the ground, I swear that my eyes play a trick on me, because what I see before me can’t be my home. It’s a trick that my mind works hard to reject because there is no way the piles of rubble and stone are a part of anything that way once recognizable to me. I step forward in a daze, facing the direction of the town, as stones and pebbles crunch beneath my boot.

 

The first thing that assaults my senses is the incredible dryness of the air. It’s been hot and I see it in the evidence of the undisturbed piles of ashes scattered on the ground. Next to me, Peeta stands ramrod straight, staring down the road with an indescribable look of horror on his face. I follow his gaze and now I realize that the road is littered with the charred remains of those incinerated by the bombs or those overcome by smoke and flames, lying in various stages of decomposition. I drop my eyes to avoid the sight and find that the stone I’d felt crunching beneath my boot was not a stone at all but a skull, the smiling grimace staring up at me, peeved perhaps by the disturbance.

 

“I can’t do this,” I mutter, my mouth dry though I’ve been studious about keeping it closed, for fear of who or what might enter.  I forget the microphone attached to my earpiece, Gale’s voice bursting into my headset.

 

“Catnip, are you okay down there?” he asks, fear lacing his words.  It’s the first time he’s spoken to me since our argument and it fills me with incredible relief that, despite everything, he still worries and cares about me.

 

“Yeah, I am. Thank you,” I say with true gratitude, that I might still have my friend after all.

 

Peeta, meanwhile, appears oblivious to our conversation.  His trembling is my immediate indication of his state as he squeezes my hand so tightly, my fingers lose feeling - this has become our language and it may be all I get from him as he stares out onto the graveyard that was once the main road through District 12. His eyes take in the rubble that used to be the collection of shops comprising the merchant quarter, mounds of refuse that can no longer speak of what what they were once a part of.  Fewer than a dozen of the well-to-do survived the bombing while, in total, barely ten percent of the population of District 12 escaped the fires of the Capitol’s vengeance. He has nothing now except for a partially-functioning memory, his brother and me.  And it was my arrow that brought this down on all of us.

 

He steps forward with one careful step after another, making his way in the general direction of the site where his family’s bakery once stood. He loosens his grip on my hand, as if giving me the option to follow or not but I hold fast, carried by his will.  

 

As my boot kicks up the dust of my people, covering them in the powdery remains of an agonizing death, I remember President Snow’s words, “ _Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, you have provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem._ ”  I glance at the skulls, the petrified bodies, the disconnected limbs and body parts, charred by flames, grey from decay and I can’t help to point at each one. “ _I killed you..and you...and you…_ ”

 

In the distance, the mines still burn and suddenly, I cover my face with my shirt. I can’t know whose ash I’m taking in and the idea of it continues to overwhelm me. District 12 had nothing - no organized resistance, no weapons.  They had no idea that District 13 was plotting to get me out of the Arena. They were wiped out, annihilated, all because of the scheming of a district that had already abandoned them once in the first uprising and had schemed yet again to break out a girl - no, not a girl;  a symbol, a bird.  They did all this without a by-your-leave from anyone except for a handful of strategizers, one of whom is talking into the tiny speaker in my ear. I resolutely ignore him.  

 

Haymitch’s admonishments and instructions mean nothing to me as I rip the earpiece out of my ear and focus on what Peeta is now staring at.  Space and rubble.  Where there had once been walls, a roof, a structure, with a family inside, now stands charred wood, stone and rubble. He releases my hand to step within the boundaries of the nonexistent walls, and now he is part of the panorama, a lone man in a post-apocalyptic world.  He scans the remnants of his home and I think back to the bones and corpses that line the road, knowing with sickening dread that we may already be covered in his family’s remains.  

 

I follow Peeta, though I want nothing more than to run into the nearby woods and get lost in them forever.  He steps carefully over the rubble, likely in deference to his leg but perhaps also out of consideration for the possible remains of those he once knew as his mother, father and brother.  He stops in the middle and stares at the melted hunk of metal - misshapen and bowed but still standing.  He lays his open hand on it and rubs it, caressing it as if it is one of the ones he loves that he’s come to find.  

 

_Oven_

 

It bursts into my mind in a moment of clarity. There, pressed into it’s misshapen front is the curved handle that once opened the door, the drooping sliver of steel the only evidence of the melted hinges.  When he lays his forehead against the sun-heated metal, I feel the communion. It is absolutely all that is left and he clings to it - the black, charred body drizzling into a mound of nondescript matter and cooled to carry in it the shape of all the horror and pain of the last moments of an entire tribe of people.  He leans against it, rocking slowly back and forth, swaying as if he is being held in place by the point of contact between his head and the oven.

 

As I stare at the remains surrounding me, the air is suddenly cut by a gasp, as if in shock. I turn to see Peeta stiffen, a bolt of tension lancing his body and pinning him to the spot in the middle of what was once the bakery kitchen. I make my way towards him in a panic, my hands landing on the now rock-hard muscles of his back.

 

“Peeta?” I ask desperately, willing his body to stand down and be calm.

 

“All gone,” he says almost breathlessly, his eyes still closed but the motion of the small circles my hand makes on his back soon cause him to relax, his shoulders slumping beneath my touch.  When he pulls back from the melted oven, his hand lingers, now covered in the dust that has long since settled on that hunk of dead thing.  Without bothering to dust himself off, he turns towards me, pale and close to collapse. I walk forward, his hand seeking mine out as he manages to put one foot in front of the other and limp his way out of the rubble.  He isn’t crying but the agony and wailing grief are buried in his wide blue eyes, eyes that were normally the color of the summer sky but now dim and full of torment at the undeniable evidence our losses.  

 

**XXXXX**

 

As we walk towards Victor’s Village, to the left of us is the building that was once Madge Undersee’s home. I haven’t seen her family at all in District 13 and wonder if they had been whisked away to the Capitol, in deference to her father’s position as Mayor. Then I remember that she stood alongside me at the Reaping and realize that nothing protected anyone in the District from being fodder to the Capitol’s need, especially if death and revenge were its immediate objective.

 

As we continue to walk, I tug my shirt further over my nose and mouth and catch Peeta doing the same. Grey snow has fallen everywhere but the houses of Victor’s Village remain eerily undisturbed. Perhaps, being an extension of the Capitol, they could not bear to firebomb them.  Perhaps they would need a place to stay when it was time for them to reclaim the mines and maybe import a new gaggle of slaves to this place to work them. The Capitol was counting on Victory and planning accordingly.

 

I enter the house I shared with my mother and sister.  Aside from the dust, it stands like an impervious monument in the middle of so much death. I try not to think about it, not to focus on the dead but search the downstairs for a few tokens - a photograph of my parents on their wedding day, a blue hair ribbon for Prim, the family book of medicinal and edible plants.  Peeta stands like a wraith, wrestling with his own pain as I gather the last of the artifacts, donning my father’s hunting jacket, comforted by the soft, worn leather.  I sling the hunting bag, as I’ve done so many times, over my shoulder in the permanent indentation in the leather created by the strap as it rested there through years of hunting.

 

As I return to the kitchen, Peeta no longers stands in place but has taken to pacing. It occurs to me as he becomes more energized that he’s furious as he stomps about the room.  The dust of the bombing, the ash of our fellow citizens float up like a forgotten memory around his boots.  

“It’s all so convenient, isn’t it?” Peeta seethes, breaking his long, mournful silence. His hands are balled into fists at his side.  He’s finally crying but his voice gives none of the grief away, only a calm, deadly rage.  “She has us. She has what remains of District 12, tucked away in an underground hole, away from the Capitol’s reach.  They think they’re safe but they’re hostages, if we don’t cooperate,” he looks up at me, his eyes red-rimmed and blazing.  “But just in case, she sends us here, to see this,” he spreads his arms to indicate beyond my Victor’s home to encompass all of District 12.  “Because she knows it will be the most persuasive way to convince us to work with the rebellion.”

“I don’t see that we have a choice.” I say through my raw throat. I’ll never get those skulls out of my head again. They’ll appear, over and over in my nightmares until the day I die.  “Things have already started, with or without our consent.”

 

I lean against the counter, watching him, his large frame hunched over his pain as he stalks the kitchen. Something dawns on me and though I am afraid, I decide to ask him about his moment of tension at the site of his parent’s bakery.

 

“You remembered something, didn’t you?”

Peeta stops his pacing before me, his mask of anger falling away to reveal his vulnerability. “Yes.  I remembered things, Katniss.”

My eyes grow wide with shock.  “Remembered what?”

He shakes his head sadly, as if to deny the memory he so desperately wanted. “My parents. I remember saying goodbye to them before one of the Games. I guess the first ones. I remember my father crying. My brothers looking guilty.  My mother practically taking bets on my death,” he growled, renewed anger marring the grief in his features.  

“I’m sorry, Peeta,” I say, holding my hand out, not sure how much comfort I should give.  He takes it and pulls me into the circle of his arms, burying his face in my neck.

“I can’t decide this for you, Katniss. You are the one that people are looking to. I’m incidental and can be replaced,” I protest but he shushes me gently.  “I’m not crazy about District 13 but things may be too far gone to change our minds now.”

 

I swallow hard.  “I…”  I begin to tremble, from the combination of stress and horror that overwhelms me. “I can’t do this without you,” I tell him and I know I’m being reckless but I’m selfish and don’t care. “I know things are strange now, but I can’t…” I pull back to look at him, and it’s pure misery I see reflected back at me. Neither of us will soon forget this trip.

“You won’t have to,” he says quietly, as we listen to the dry wind pick up outside the windows, my stomach twisting at who or what is being tossed around in its fury.  I don’t want to think of all the dead ones who lie in a bed of frozen agony or ashes because of me. I don’t want to think of the charred remains of Peeta’s bakery oven. I don’t want any of it and yet, all the guilt and blame is mine.  I can’t contain them either and all the tears I’ve been holding in during this visit spill out, probably streaking my ash-covered face with small rivers of pain.

 

Peeta sees them, using his large thumbs to wipe the moisture from my cheeks.  He is as overcome as I am and tries to speak but the words fail him. Instead, he holds my gaze as he slowly lowers his head. I know what he will do and I hold my breath, shuddering at the expectation that finally, I will feel his lips against mine.  In fulfillment of that long-deferred wish, he brushes my tear-stained lips, our the grief mingling with each other.  There is the faint taste of earth as his mouth parts over mine, inviting me to take refuge.  When I can savor him, however, the ash and misery give way to warmth and comfort. I melt into his embrace, allowing his mouth free reign to give up its taste to me. I abandon myself to the feeling creeping up within, the one that sparked and spread that fateful night on the beach. With that spark in my belly, I slide my hands around his neck to pull him closer to me, deepening our connection. We’re home finally, not because we’re here, in the dusty wreckage of District 12, but because we are holding onto each other again, fending off the terrors of a world at war the way we did on those nights on the train - wrapped in the safety of each other’s arms.

 

**XXXXX**

 

The sound of hissing breaks the spell and I turn around to see the ugliest tomcat in the world.  I’m shocked by him. District 12 lies in ruins but there he stands, angry at being abandoned, ears flattened, back arched. I kneel and try to get him to come to me but he simply responds with another hiss. Peeta looks on in surprise as I try to coax him towards me.

“It’s Buttercup. I have nothing for him and food was my only redeeming quality to him.” I glance up to see the humor on Peeta’s tear-stained face. I turn back to the flea bag and affect a sweet voice. “Want to see Prim?”

The mangy beast reacts instantly to the name and purrs, walking towards me. Without ceremony, I stuff him into the game bag.  Peeta makes to help me but I have efficiently captured Buttercup, his hiss and howls expressing his displeasure at this seeming betrayal.

As I stand to face Peeta, a sensation of terror creeps up my back.  I sniff at the air and it is then that I smell it - the sickly sweet, artificial floral scent.  Peeta catches my look, tilting his head quizzically at me.  I follow the fragrance until I am back in the study.  Among the wilted bouquet of flowers President Snow brought the first and only time he visited me in District 12, a white rose peaks out, rising like a burst of white ice in the middle of the decayed flowers.

It is perfect, down to the fine hairs on its stem. I back away, bumping into Peeta as I try to escape.  He grasps my arms and forces me to look at him.  “What is it, Katniss?”

“He...he sent it...he sent me that rose,” I gasp, trying to tear myself away in panic.

“Who?” He looks up, releasing me and follows my line of sight to where the flower stands in malevolent wait for me. Peeta pulls it out from among the dead flowers, dried petals raining down in a spray of rot onto the desk.  He studies it as I back away from the stench. I bound out of the house, not bothering to care that the game bag is banging against the walls and door jamb of the corridor of the house, its occupant yowling in protest as I burst outside and away from the threat that flower represents.

Peeta is comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my trembling body. The flower is for me. After all the security sweeps and searches, that flower escaped the notice of my protectors. How could they know what it represents?  No one was in that study but me, as he ate Peeta’s flower-frosted cookies and threatened me, a threat he partially fulfilled when he rained bombs on District 12.   _I can find you. I can reach you. Perhaps I am watching you now_.

“We have to go,” I say. It would take too long to give Peeta the context of my terrors here, in the death covered ash of Victor’s Village. Instead, I drag him along, barely giving him a chance to stop and run inside his own house to fetch a few tokens of his own, including his sketchbook and photographs of his own family. We hurry back to the hovercraft and I try not to concentrate on the unfinished business between Snow and me.

**XXXXX**

We are thoroughly exhausted when we return to District 13. For the entire trip. I stare at the back of Haymitch’s head with murderous intensity, my entire body flooded with hatred for my benefactors. District 12 wouldn’t have been in this situation if District 13 had not been plotting for my escape and forced Snow’s hand. I could have just as easily died in the Arena, sparing Peeta, his family and all the other residents of District 12. The rebellion would have probably gone on - there were things set in motion that were far beyond my control by the time we had entered the Quarter Quell.  Instead, Coin had played operatives, orchestrating plots and breakouts and now, ten thousand souls cry out for revenge.

When the hovercraft lands, Rye and my sister are waiting on the landing strip.  I was never more relieved to see my sister than at that moment. Peeta releases my hand to meet his brother.  Remarkably, Rye’s eyes are filled with pity and compassion and for once, he does not send daggers of hatred in my direction. When he isn’t mentally plotting my demise, I have to acknowledge that he is actually quite handsome, in a more rugged and imperfect way than Peeta.

I clasp Prim to me, holding on for a long moment to her small frame, relieved at the familiar scent of her that will always remind me of a baby, no matter how old she becomes. She senses the movement in my hunting bag and casts an inquiring glance at me but I quiet her, whispering, “I have a surprise for you.”   Her eyes light up in expectation, the happiness I see there pulling me out of my melancholy.

As Rye walks away with Peeta, Peeta’s eyes engulf me with longing. I set my sister aside and make my way towards him, causing him to stop.

“We need to talk,” he says quietly, a strange look between seriousness and hunger crossing his features.

“Yes,” I answer with a vague uneasiness that blossoms in my belly and spreads throughout my limbs. I shake my head to rid myself of the feeling.  “Tomorrow, after breakfast.” I answer.

“Tomorrow, then.” he asserts and something about the way he says it makes it sound like less of an appointment and more like a promise that makes me shiver suddenly with expectation.  I am unprepared for the kiss he now leaves on my cheek but the heat that explodes from the spot where his lips make contact is proof that he has made a promise to me that he intends to keep. He walks away with his brother, leaving me in a strange state of anticipation that has nothing to do with the events of this afternoon or the seriousness of what we are about to discuss.

**XXXXX**

 

Prim can barely contain her excitement as the door of our quarters closes behind us.  I open the bag and I am sure Buttercup would have wanted nothing more than to claw me to pieces except that it is Prim’s arms that capture him.  The rest of the night is like a bad episode of _Buttercup Love Fest_ , wherein Prim and Mother fawn over the beast while I gag on the melodrama of their cooing and fawning over that damn cat.  However, if I am really honest with myself, I have to acknowledge that I don’t want to give the cat the satisfaction of knowing that behind my superior scowl, I am practically beaming at Prim’s happiness.

 

That night, I wake from nightmares featuring children’s skulls and melted metal with people trapped inside. I sit up to find Prim staring at me from the bunk she now shares with my mother.  Scooting out quietly from under the watchful yellow eyes of Buttercup - back on the job as our nighttime guard - Prim crawls into bed next to me.  
  


“What’s wrong?” she asks sleepily.

 

“Just a bad dream. It’s okay.”

 

Prim sighs, shaking her head at me. “Haven’t I proven that I can keep a secret?  Even from mom?  Talk to me.”

 

I smile at my little duck, so full of wisdom and poise, forced to grow up too quickly to cope with an absent mother and a sister who is too shell-shocked to ever be normal again.

 

“It’s the leadership.  They want me to be the Mockingjay.  That’s why they got me out of the Arena.” I say quietly, a large weight slowly lifting from my chest with every word that I speak.  “I think...I think Peeta will go along with it...after today,” I sigh.  “I worry, that’s all. I don’t trust Coin. Not completely. I don’t feel safe here. What if the Victor’s _are_ recovered after the war?” My mind is a jumble as I try to sort my confusion. “Will they be executed even if they were forced to say those things they said?”

 

“I don’t know.” Prim interjects.

 

“And the residents of District 12. What will happen to them?”

 

“Oh, that I can speak to. There was a smallpox epidemic that left a lot of residents here sterile. They need District 12 folks to help with repopulation,” Prim says diplomatically.  All I can think of is animal breeding, which leaves a rather distasteful flavor in my mouth.

 

“That’s why there aren’t any children around,” I say instead.

 

“No. So, I think you don’t have to worry about the survivors. They’re welcomed with open arms, or at least, their genetic material is,” Prim chuckles at this.

 

“Doctor jokes. Sheese…” I tease but I truly love this version of my sister.

 

“Katniss,” she says, more seriously. “I don’t think you understand just how important you are to the rebel cause.  I don’t think anyone has more power than you at the moment. You could ask for the moon and they’d have to figure out a way to get it for you.”

 

“You think?” I say skeptically. I’m not used to power of any kind.

 

“Yes. Make a list of your conditions and ask for what you want. I know they’ll have to agree to everything.”

 

I smile, my unease melting away with each word she says.  “How’d you get so wise? I should wake you up more often.”

 

“I wish you would,” Prim says, leaving a kiss on my nose that I fills me with all the warmth of a spring day.

 

“Thank you,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

 

“Oh, hey!” Prim hisses, pulling me from my steady descent into sleep.

 

“What is it?” I mumble.

 

“I saw that kiss Peeta gave you today…” she giggles suggestively.

 

I flush, not with anger or embarrassment but with the heat of another feeling at the thought of his lips on my skin. “It’s late,” I say with feigned indignation. “Go to sleep.”  

 

**XXXXX**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to peetabreadgirl, solasvioletta and abbythebear, for their betaing prowess and amazing conversation. I am so fortunate to have these great ladies and so many others who are willing to read my brain drool and try to make it better. You are wonderful, my people!
> 
> I can’t thank nightlockinthecave for all the amazing banners she makes for me and others! If you haven’t seen her work, look in her tag. Thank you so much!
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience. I will not be a slob about this fic anymore. I am working on this one and Katniss Everdeen: Demon Hunter until they are both done, alternating updates. I warn you, though. This fic is looking like a long one because I have to move the plot through to the end of the Revolution so if you jump on this train, you might be here for awhile :).
> 
> Prompts in Panem is next week! Be sure to head over and check out my (as-yet) untitled, co-written fic with Katnissdoesnotfollowback.
> 
> I look forward to your feedback! If you see something in need of improvement, let me know. That’s the only way I’ll get better.


	13. Rules of Engagement

****_When whatever you want to do cannot be done,_  
When nothing is of any use;  
—At this hour when night comes down,  
When night comes, dragging its long face,  
                                            dressed in mourning,  
Be with me,  
My tormenter, my love, be near me.

 

**-from _Be Near Me_ by Faiz Ahmed Faiz**

 

**(A/N at the end)**

 

I spend the night after my talk with Prim drifting in and out of a fitful sleep.  I don’t dream anymore about District 12 - those nightmares are sure to make their reappearance on another night - but I am filled with disquieting thoughts nonetheless.  My mind continues to race and though I managed to doze off, I wake before the gentle brightening of mechanically generated light floods our quarters, light that is intended to emulate the natural rays of the sun.

 

I shuffle quietly from my bed toward the dining table that doubles as a writing desk and workstation for each of our varied interests.  With paper in hand, I scribble a list of the conditions that will need to be satisfied for me to truly accept the role that has been so painstakingly planned for me by others - Haymitch, Plutarch, Coin, even Cinna.  It seems everyone has a hand in shaping my role as rebel leader and symbol - everyone but me.

 

But now there is a pair of us to consider. Despite the horrors of seeing my District burn to the ground, despite the nightmares and the sometimes teeming despair of being handled by so many people, I am not alone.  I still feel a powerful need to protect Peeta - there will always be that between us.  But I also need his clarity, his ability to see through the twists and turns to really get to what matters. In this, he is so much like Prim - light in darkness.   They not only see far but they shine bright so that I may see as well.  In some ways, I need their protection also, from the confusion of a world I often don’t understand.

 

**XXXXX**

 

At breakfast, I glance at my tattoo and decide to ignore my schedule. I’m ravenous and though my breakfast is anything but tasty, I finish it off quickly, wishing there was more soggy turnips to be had.  But there are no seconds in District 13. Calories and portions are strictly rationed according to your height, health and level of activity and District 12 refugees are already receiving more calories than the other citizens.

 

The bread, however, is of a better quality than what has been served lately and I swallow it with relish.  I’m so busy collecting crumbs with the moistened pad of my finger that I don’t notice Gale set his tray down next to me until the hard plastic clicks against the surface of the metal table. I scoot over, giving him the space he needs.  The shock does nothing to quell my hunger, and I try not to be obvious about staring at his tray.

 

Clearly, I’ve failed when he slops a spoonful of turnips into my own bowl.

 

“You shouldn’t do that,” I say while swallowing the food he’s given me, as if I’d never argued with him. I know this may be the closest thing I will ever get to an apology but it’s enough for me.

 

“You’re practically drooling over those turnips,” he quips, giving me the rest of his vegetables.

 

“Stop!” I say, truly flustered but unable to resist eating the remaining portion. “There are probably rules against food sharing.” I had heard that there had been an incident of hoarding that led to the rules now in place.  But it’s a hard pill to swallow for people like Gale and me, who know how to be hungry, but don’t know how to be told what to do with what they have.

 

“Maybe I need to add that,” I say, almost to myself with excitement.

 

“Add what,” he asks and I realize that we are bantering like normal, something that makes me indescribably happy.

 

“Add hunting above ground,” I clarify.  “We could give what we catch to the kitchens.”

 

“We?” he says but I can see that this makes him happy from the twinkle in his clear, grey eyes.

 

“We can hunt like we used to,” my voice catches at this and I am reminded again of how much I have missed his friendship.  “We could be ourselves again,” I say and, despite the hunger and annual terror of the Reaping, there are things from my old life that I miss desperately.  “The meat can be donated to the kitchen, which would only make things taste better.”

 

“Now’s the time.  You could ask for whatever you want and they’d have to figure out a way to give it to you.”

 

This is it. This is my only chance to bargain and I have to make what I ask for matter.  I consider the items on my list, though it sits quietly in my pocket, ready to spring loose and wreak its havoc on the unsuspecting members of Command.  I fully expect resistance and try to prepare mentally for it.

 

Prim settles in next to me as I roll the ideas around in my head.  She notes my preoccupation but says nothing, wisely choosing instead to engage Gale in conversation.  She leaves me to my own devices, eyeing me occasionally, perhaps to make sure I won’t fly away but gives me the precious gift of peace that I need to think.  I’m so grateful for her insight that, without warning, I reach out to squeeze her hand, which lays discarded by her tray as she responds to someone’s comment to the other side of the table. Gale watches me in that observant way he has of seeing the things that most people leave lying just below the surface. Meanwhile, my touch startles Prim but she visibly flushes with pleasure and smiles back at me. I suddenly feel a little stronger, and more composed.

 

When I look up, I catch sight of Peeta’s blond head making its way through the food line.  His hair is growing in, covering the scar on the side of his head with thick, golden curls.  He is also gaining his bulk back, little by little, thanks to a special nutrition plan designed especially for him.  He’s healthier, stronger and this, together with my sister’s warm hand in mine and Gale’s willingness to be my friend again, fills me with a pleasant, smooth happiness, not the fireworks kind like when Peeta kisses me, but the mellow joy of dark chocolate melted into cream, the kind that coats your stomach and hits all the right spots.  I don’t turn my face away as he walks towards the table but stare in open expectation for his arrival.  Prim squeezes my fingers and I chance a glance to see her watching me with a wry humor that promises questions and teasing later on.

 

Peeta smiles with equal warmth as he settles down at the table.  It’s there in his eyes - the sense of loss over District 12, the sleepless night, the renewed grief. But like me, there is an edge of happiness at seeing me, a relaxing of his worry lines and I almost allow myself to hope that he might have the same excitement at seeing me that I have of seeing him.

 

“Hello.” He greets everyone, though his eyes do not flit away from mine, but hold them in place with a blistering heat.

 

“Hey,” I say, releasing my sister’s hand, fearing that perhaps the sudden strumming of my heart might be transmitted through the thin barrier of my skin. She had enough ammunition with which to harass me without adding the certainty of my anticipation.

 

Gale, who has been observing us in silence, picks up a slice of bread, that I’ve only just noticed sitting on his tray. I look down and can hardly remember what it was that I was eating up to that moment.  “Who can we thank for this?” he asks and the ease with which he addresses Peeta takes me by surprise.

 

Peeta laughs and if he lets on that Gale speaking to him disarms him, he doesn’t show it.  With a shrug says, “Oh, you know. The cooks are actually practicing their baking recipes.  It’s still a little heavy on the whole wheat,” he takes it good naturedly from Gale’s hand and examines it with an expert eye, “but at least you can’t bludgeon anyone with it.”

 

“It’s a lot better than what they were serving before. Can we get some lessons on the other food groups too?” Prim interjects.

 

“I don’t know. It’s not like I have that much clout,” he answers, watching me the entire time.  Our conversation gives me another idea and I pull out the list of demands I worked on this morning, scribbling an additional line at the bottom.

 

“What’s that?” Peeta asks as I write.

 

I add a period with a certain flair. “This is what I need to talk to you about.” I respond, suddenly hesitant to speak out loud of our list of demands.

 

Peeta finishes his meal, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I’m ready if you are,” he says, nodding in acknowledgement to Prim and Gale before standing up with his empty tray.

 

I stand also, collecting my tray. “Let’s go then,” I say, studiously avoiding my sister’s humorous gaze and Gale’s somewhat more intense one. Peeta follows me as we drop off the trays to be washed and sorted. We head in the direction of my quarters, walking quietly past people all moving to fulfill the requirements of the schedules tattooed on their arms.

 

However, at the usual corner where we move to the right to take the elevators, Peeta veers instead to the left.  

 

“Where are we going?” I ask in confusion.

 

“You’ll see,” he says, grasping my hand and pulling me into another elevator, one which heads deeper into the heart of the earth beneath District 13.  I try not to think about how far below ground we are and instead focus on Peeta’s fingers laced through mine, drawing strength from his purpose and the sense of safety he always manages to convey.  When the doors swish open, a blast of dry, heated air presses against me but I find it is not unpleasant.  It hangs heavy with the smell of spices, cooked foods and, just beneath, combustion.

 

The room we step into is large, with stations designated by groups of symmetrically arranged metal tables, sinks installed periodically throughout. Groups of people huddle on stools around these islands, peeling potatoes, scraping carrots or washing other vegetables. I know, without having to be told, that these are the kitchens responsible for preparing the meals for possibly the entire district.  As Peeta moves through the tables, it is clear he knows his way around, his reflection glancing off of the metal as he pulls me gently along.

 

“These are the kitchens of District 13.  There is large greenhouse complex just next door - I’ll take you there sometime. I want to show you something first.”  We round a corner into a back room and head to a work area where other citizens labor over pots of liquid.  From the group of about fifty stations emerges a figure that makes me jump in surprise.

 

“Greasy Sae!” I call out.  I’m shocked by how pleased I am to see her, how happy I am at the sight of anyone who has escaped the destruction of our district.  It makes perfect sense that she would be working in the kitchens.  

 

“I volunteered and they figured out real quick I had a knack for making something out of nothing,” she said with her trademark scowl, wrinkling her nose.  It made the creases of her lined face become deep crevices of distaste.  “They don’t have a whole lot of imagination here, though.  It’s all calorie counts and vitamins to them. Taste doesn’t matter at all,” she drawls out.  Sae appears content enough but I understand her frustration. A woman who could come up with a palatable wild dog and rhubarb stew is bound to feel like her hands are tied here.

 

“You coming on shift, Peeta?” she asked with familiarity.

 

“No, I just wanted to show Katniss what I was working on yesterday.” he answered and I couldn’t help but shake my head. In District 12, there would have been no cause at all for a Merchant to speak with a Seam resident, especially one with the personality and temperament of Greasy Sae.

 

“Oh, yeah, “ Sae smiles, patting my arm. “I think you’re going to like what he made.”

 

I am now very curious as Peeta leads me further to the back of the kitchens, behind the bustling work area. He opens a metal cabinet and pulls out a non-descript plastic container which he promptly places in a smaller compartment embedded in the wall. Pressing several buttons, I observe the glow through the small window.  The machine fascinates me, similar to the food warmers I’d seen in the Capitol and it occurs to me that this is exactly what this machine does.  

 

Peeta gestures to a stool and sets two plates, cups and towels for each of us.  When the bell rings, he pulls open the door and the buttery, herbal aroma assaults my senses.

 

“Peeta!” I exclaim, unable to contain my excitement at the familiar smell of something that, to me, was always so enticing.

 

“Do you recognize these?” he asks triumphantly as he takes the tender, warm bread, glossy with brushed oil and herbs; the smell of melted cheese curling around me with its seductive aroma.

 

“Are these cheese buns?” I ask, carefully capturing one and pulling it between my fingers, the warm, stringy cheese stretching between the two halves.

 

Peeta smiles, blowing on one of his own to cool the bread.  “The whole culinary experience here needs a revolution,” he quips, clearly enjoying my reaction.

 

I place the pastry in my mouth, moaning indecently with delight. In the past, I could rarely afford the ones Peeta and his family made in the bakery, only once having experienced the exquisite delight of this treat.  

 

I practically drop my pastry and jump up. “Peeta, you remembered that I love cheese buns!  You didn’t know that before - I only ever had them once in your father’s bakery and you weren’t even there.”

 

Peeta furrowed his brow, struggling with a memory.  “I...I don’t know...I thought I knew you always loved cheese buns?”

 

I move from my stool to stand directly in front of him, his thighs flanking me on either side.  “No, it was between the Victory Tour and the Quarter Quell. You used to bring cheese buns by the house every day,” my stomach leaps, not with nausea but with excitement. “You remember!” I laugh, stepping between his legs to fling my arms around his neck.  He had remembered something, something that had to do with me, and it thrilled me beyond words.

 

Peeta’s arms came up around my waist, pressing me to him as he murmured against my shoulder. “I didn’t realized I’d remembered that. It just seems to be a fact that I...know…” he said.

 

“But did you know before you started working on the cheese buns?” I pull back to consider him.  “What gave you the idea that you should make them for me?”

 

“I came back yesterday from our trip to District 12,” he says, trying hard to concentrate.  “I remember seeing Greasy Sae here and we talked about the trip and the bombing. I wasn’t feeling very good and she suggested that I do something to take my mind off of it, or I wouldn’t sleep.  I had to clear it with security but the permission came through pretty quickly. So I had the idea to make these,” he picked up another one of the delicious morsels, holding it practically before my nose.  “It was a toss up between cheese buns and hot chocolate, which I also remembered you like,” he pauses, staring at me as I listen to every single word.  

 

“This is progress. You have to tell Dr. Aguilar!” I say.

 

“I hope so,” he replies unconvinced.  “I don’t know what’s real sometimes, you know?  Like these cheese buns and the hot chocolate…” he trails off, imploring me to understand, his arms clenching my waist to draw me closer to him. “I feel so many things and I don’t know how or why but I wish I did.  It would make what I feel more legitimate.”

 

“How do you feel?” I ask, my pulse humming like the quick strumming of a guitar.

 

He blushes, the freckles on his nose becoming a deep, golden color, appearing to float above the now pink skin.  “Like I would do anything for you,” he whispers.

 

I drop my eyes, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.  “When you were… when you,” I stuttered, “When you were yourself, you really would have done anything for me.”

 

“And would you still do anything for me?” he asks, his blue eyes blazing. “Even when I’m like this?”

 

I’m not good with words like he is, so I simply nod, utterly speechless.  He pulls me towards him, until I have to rest my hands on his shoulder to keep myself steady, trying not to give in to the sudden vertigo provoked from being so close to hm.  He raises his lips to mine and kisses me.  Free of ash and misery, it is filled with everything warm, solid and steady that I associate with him, as well as an unexpected heat beyond the warmth of comfort that threatens to make my knees buckle beneath me.

 

I part my lips slightly, inviting him in, just as when we were on the beach and though the stakes are just as high, there’s no one watching us this time.  The scene is almost domestic, surrounded by the warmth of cheese buns in a kitchen which, on a smaller scale, could have belonged in a bakery. Peeta tentatively accepts my invitation and I thrill in the heady taste of him.

 

We kiss this way until the need for air causes us to pull apart.  Peeta holds my head in place, pressing his forehead to mine as he regains composure and his blood cools.

 

“What are we going to do?” he asks.

 

There’s suddenly so much to think about and our role in the Revolution hurtles back to the center of our attention. There is also the question of what Peeta and I will do with our peculiar private situation. I decide to address the easier of the two.

 

Trying to create mental distance so that I can think clearly, I lean back, taking in his flushed skin and slightly swollen lips, tempting me to return to kissing him but instead I pull out the crumpled list I’d been working on the night before, when I was unable to sleep.

 

“These are some of the conditions I have for Coin,” I say, handing the list over to Peeta.

 

He scans my scribble, nodding occasionally. “This looks good.  Do you think she’s going to really go for a rescue attempt for Annie?” he asks without looking up.

 

“We can’t leave her there. For Finnick’s sake,” I say, thinking again at what a terrible situation he is in because of Annie’s detention.

 

He nods and I know he is simply taking in all sides of the situation. “You have hunting above ground also,” he asks, glancing at me and I am unable to read his expression.

 

“Yes,” I say.

 

He sets the paper down and searches the sideboard momentarily, pulling a pen from a metal holder.  He scribbles something else on the list.

 

“I’d like to have access to the kitchen outside of my shifts together with Rye, without the need to get clearance each time. To bake.  He needs the distraction. And sometimes, when I can’t sleep, it’s the only thing that helps.  Can I add that?”

 

“Yes, of course.” I think of the long nights on the train, during the Victory Tour, when neither of us could find sleep alone. He wouldn’t remember those, but I know we both slept better when we were holding onto each other. I miss his warm arms at night, the way he soothed the nightmares away.  I shake my head but I am no longer without hope. He’s remembered so much in these last two days. Maybe one day, he will have those memories back also.

 

“I don’t think that’s unreasonable,” I say, returning to the task at hand.  “Though they will probably want you to start training right away.”

 

“Well, we’re soldiers now, aren’t we? We have to play our part,” he says wryly, handing back my list of demands.  “So, should we just get this over with and speak to Command?”

 

“Yes. I guess we’ve decided.  They’ll have their Mockingjay.” I pause, searching his eyes. “Will we do this?” I ask, clasping his hand tightly in mine.  

 

“Yes, together,” he answers, bringing our joined hands to his lips to leave a kiss on my knuckles.  “I’ll be your propos partner, your fiance, whatever you need me to be.”

 

His words bring me close to tears.  Despite everything we’ve been through, he is always on my side, even when his memory betrays him.  Those three treacherous words are on the tip of my tongue but I swallow them with a kiss that takes him by surprise from the intensity.  I can’t afford to expose my hand and risk losing him forever and so I tuck those dangerous feelings away until I can pull them out of their secret place, when they will be free to grow again.

 

When we separate, he asks, “I was hoping, if it wasn’t too much, we could finish watching the footage together.  The Quarter Quell footage, I mean.”

 

A shiver of nervousness race up my spine when I consider those games.  “I...yeah...sure.  This afternoon if we get the chance.” I break into my warmest smile.  “There’s a lot to talk about there also.”

 

Peeta nods and pulls me in again, his warm lips finding mine.  He kisses me with more intensity than before and I revel in the euphoria that his mouth brings to me. When we’ve kissed to breathlessness again, I smile against his lips.

 

“At least you haven’t forgotten how to kiss like that.”

 

“You bring it out of me, Katniss,” he says, rubbing my arms.  “I’ve had a crush on you since we were five,” he says somewhat haltingly and though he’s confessed this to me already, this is like the first time for him.  “Even if I don’t remember what happened between us afterwards, there’s always that. All of this,” he grips my arms to indicate that he’s talking about us together, “Is unbelievable to me but it’s all I ever dreamed of.”  He runs his hand over my cheek and I lean into it, knowing he could do this all day and I would never tire of his touch.  “If I never remembered anything else, this would be enough.”

 

“Peeta…” I say, bringing my head down to his ear, smelling the scent of his freshly washed skin. I rub my head into the crook of his neck in that cat-like way, bringing tingles of pleasure across my skin.

 

He grasps me to him again and holds me in a powerful hug that pushes the breath out of my lungs. “Well, if I don’t, we can always make new memories.”

 

**XXXXX**

 

The only advantage of Peeta’s and my situation is that we have almost instantaneous access to those in Command.  Coin agrees to an impromptu meeting.  The usual group - Haymitch, who has been conspicuously absent around District 13 lately - Plutarch, Coin, Boggs and other members of leadership whose name I’ve been given but I haven’t bothered to remember.

 

“So, yeah,” I begin awkwardly.  Peeta is the real wordsmith but I feel like I need to be the one to make the announcement.  He sits quietly next to me, one hand resting lightly on my knee. I draw strength from his steady heat.

 

“I’ll be the Mockingjay,” I say, watching, perhaps waiting for the burst of applause or congratulation from the group before me but only Plutarch seems to be ready to punch the air.  Everyone else takes their cue from Coin, who remains as unmoving and unimpressed as ever.

 

“But I have some conditions,” I continue, smoothing out my list, glancing at Peeta, who gives me an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.  “My family gets to keep their cat,” I say, but I’m almost immediately crowded out by the contention this request sets off. I had prioritized my list according to what I thought would be the easiest contention but apparently, the issue of the cat was a more complex one than I’d anticipated. The concept of animals as anything other than food or pests is completely foreign to the mentality of District 13. After a debate, it is decided that our quarters will be moved to the upper levels, where there is an eight inch window through which the cat can come and go. However, the animal will be expected to respect the curfew and if he is out after dark, he will be shot.

 

I’m not enthusiastic about the being shot part but everything else sounds reasonable.  

 

“Peeta and his brother have unlimited access to the kitchens,” I read off, hoping for less disagreement.

 

“That’s an odd request, as we are very strict regarding access to food supplies,” Coin says.

 

“Yes,” I say quickly, “But he helps with the baking and…” I glance at him, not wanting to reveal more than necessary to these people, “He might get his memory back faster if he is doing things that are familiar to him.”

 

Coin nods, considering for a moment.  “Granted. What’s next?”

 

I take a deep breath. “I want to hunt above ground, with my hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne.”

 

This request takes everyone by surprise.  Peeta’s eyes widen slightly but otherwise, his face remains impassive as I continue speaking.  

 

“We won’t go far. We’ll use our own bows and give the meat to the kitchens,” I continue, objections now swallowing my words.  “I can’t...I can’t breathe in this place!” I exclaim, which quiets the crowd.  “I...I’d get better, faster, if I could just get out.”

 

Haymitch, who has been watching me with sharp eyes, interjects.  “She could have a time limit, maybe a tracker bracelet.  For her safety, of course,” he holds my gaze, as if anticipating a protest and wordlessly imploring me to trust him on this. For the first time since my return to Thirteen, I decide to cooperate with him.

 

Plutarch begins to protest, citing the dangers and extra security required but Coin remains silent, considering the suggestion, “You will both have two hours and no more. Tracker bracelet.  Two mile radius.  That will enable us to keep you safe,” she says but I know it is less about my safety and more about not allowing the Mockingjay to get free.

 

Haymitch nods and leans back in his chair, his intensity gone but Coin’s next words gut me.

 

“However, I would suggest, for the purposes of the propos, that Peeta continue to be presented as your lover and partner,” she says impassively. “In private, you can have whoever you want.” I feel my mouth fall open and Peeta shift uncomfortably next to me.  Her tone is matter-of-fact and not intended to insult.

 

“I agree,” interjects Plutarch. “A quick defection from Peeta will cause the audience to lose sympathy for her. Especially as she is supposed to be carrying his child.”

 

“What?” Peeta exclaims.

 

“The Quarter Quell. You told Panem that we were expecting a baby.  It was a tactic to try to get the Games cancelled,” I explain quickly, wanting to kick myself for not preparing him better and watching this meeting quickly descend into a fiasco.

 

“You haven’t gone over the Games with him yet?” Haymitch says.

 

“We haven’t gotten to the Quarter Quell!” I say with exasperation, sending daggers in his direction. Peeta suddenly looks as demeaned as a fury rise in me. To suggest that I could simply cast him off, that I was even giving a moment’s thought to who should be presented as my lover and have that brought up so callously, before a group of perfect strangers, as if my relationship to Gale or Peeta could be interchanged or reduced to mere convenience infuriates me.

 

“I don’t feel like I should have to defend myself but Gale has been my friend since we were children. There is no ‘defection’ here. Peeta will do all the propos with me, so that there is no confusion. And I won’t say another word about it.” I feel the color rise to my cheeks and grasp Peeta’s hand, placing our knotted fingers on the table, in full view of Command, glaring at Coin as I let my anger propel me to my next request.

 

“When the war is over, if we’ve won, all Victors will be pardoned, regardless of their position during the war.”

 

I feel the tension in the room rise as I continue.  A vision of Annie floats before my eyes, fragile, chained and tortured for nothing she’s done. “No form of punishment will be inflicted.”

 

“They will be tried in a military court with everyone else and will be treated as the tribunal sees fit,” Coin answers.

 

“They’ll be granted immunity!” I feel myself rise from my chair, voice deepening in defiance.  “You don’t know what is being done to them to make them say the things they are saying.  They will not be held accountable for the things they’ve done.  You will announce this in public to hold your government and your people responsible. You will rescue Annie Cresta at the earliest opportunity or you will find yourself another Mockingjay!” My voice resonates in the room, through every person listening. I hear Plutarch mutter under his breath, “That’s it, that’s her!” He leans in to Coin, who is giving no evidence of hearing him. “With makeup, fire, and bow and arrow. That’s our girl.”

 

“Annie is not a valuable asset. I won’t risk the lives of trained soldiers to rescue her,” Coin says firmly.

 

“It is one of my conditions. Annie Cresta will not survive captivity. She needs to be rescued or you will never be able to make use of Finnick Odair, in your propos or on the field,” I sit down slowly but don’t let go of her gaze.  “She has to be freed or the whole deal is off.”

 

“You can be sure,” Peeta says finally, eyeing Coin in the same chilling manner as she has been watching me during the entire proceedings, “that if Katniss’ conditions are not met, I will not cooperate either.”

 

The tension in the room eases a bit when Plutarch intervenes. “What do you say, Madam President?” he asks. “You could issue a formal pardon, given the circumstances.”

 

Coin stares at me and though I want to take my eyes off of her, I also know that it is important that I not break eye contact. “Alright,” Coin says at long last, “But you’d both better perform.”

 

“We’ll perform when you’ve made the announcement,” Peeta says calmly as I sit down again.

 

“I’ll call a National Security Meeting during Reflection,” Coin responds. “Is there anything else?”

 

I stuff the list, now a crumpled, sweaty ball in my hand, into my pocket. “That’s all,” I respond.  

 

“Good,” Coin stands suddenly. “I leave them in your capable hands, Plutarch,” she says and exits quietly, the members of her team, except for Plutarch, Peeta, and I, exiting with her.

 

“Well, that was exciting!” he says, practically rubbing his hands together. “Now, you’ve done this before.  We’ve assembled a prep team for you. You’ll have uniforms, scripts - everything you need.”

 

It’s unfortunate but we _have_ done this before.  It’s the same thing all over again - dressing up, playing the role, this time, for the rebels against the Capitol. I observe Peeta, who is uncharacteristically quiet as Plutarch continues.  “We have a studio set up here for you. I have to admit, we have had to work with very little, as they are not accustomed to preparing anything other than documentaries and streaming selected Capitol programming but we managed to get it to work.”

 

Oblivious to our continued lack of reaction, Plutarch hands us a card. “Be at this location tomorrow morning at 0900 hours. We’ll go over the script, your suits and even get a couple of takes.”  

 

Peeta and I manage a few pleasantries when we are dismissed from Command, both of us quiet and pensive as we walk down the corridor. The whir of the air compressors seems louder here and I suspect we are near an area that requires large generators.  I try to focus on the engine that is so loud, it drowns out the sound of my own breathing and I begin to wonder if it is the actual mechanical noise or my own blood rushing in my ear that I hear.  

 

The tension between Peeta and I is almost unbearable and only becomes more suffocating when we board the elevator.  When the door swishes closed, he turns towards me, clearly repressing a powerful emotion - whether it is anger or frustration, I don’t know.

 

“That can’t happen again,” he says.

 

“I’m sorry,” I say, scowling at the ground.

 

“I’m not angry at you. Not really,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s the situation. But I need to know everything or I won’t be any good to anyone, least of all to you.” He stands in front of me.  “What happened during the Quarter Quell?  What happened between us?”

 

The elevator door opens but I stand like an avox before him.

 

“Katniss, I’m throwing my lot in with you, no matter what. But I have to know everything and you are the only person who has the answers.” He places his arms on my upper arms. “Please.”

 

As my stomach twists into a knot of nauseating nerves, I grab his hand and pull him out of the elevator.  “You’re right.  Let’s get this over with,” I say resolutely, leading him to my room, to the Quarter Quell and to whatever consequences the truth will bring.

 

**XXXXX**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can reasonably count on the next few chapters being essential to the development of Katniss and Peeta’s relationship, as well as the Rebellion.
> 
> Thanks to peetabreadgirl for betaing this fic and Madambeth for pre-reading. 
> 
> Keep an eye out for Everlarkian Archives: Movies in the Month of May, a month-long Movie!Everlark challenge. I’m scheduled to post my submission, Run To You, an Everlark fiction based on the movie, The Bodyguard, starring Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston on May 24th on tumblr, ffnet and AO3. 
> 
> Also, if you didn’t get a chance to donate for Smut 2 Save Lives, you will still get to read my Everlark/Outlander Crossover fic, co-written with Famousfremus, called Serachtuague Pearl. It will go live on June 1st on tumblr, ffnet and AO3.
> 
> And for a last bit of self-promotion, I have a collection of writings called Titania’s Drabbles and Short Works over on Archive of Our Own (AO3 username titania522). It features all of my short works, including many not found on ffnet. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and please, drop me a note! I love to communicate with my readers!


	14. Truth and Consequences

Banner by the talented [otrascossaseries](otrascossaseries.tumblr.com)

 

**Chapter 14: Truth and Consequences**

 

**_"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”_ **

 

**_*****_ **

 

**_“In a time of deceit telling the truth is a revolutionary act.”_ **

 

**― from _1984_ by George Orwell**

 

**Many thanks to solasvioletta, akai-echo and victors-mockingjay for betaing and prereading this chapter.  Still, any remaining mistakes are mine. A/N at the end.**

 

**XXXXX**

 

There is only silence as we enter my quarters. My mother and sister are training in District 13’s main hospital today and won’t return until the evening. With trembling hands, I take the disk from its case and remove it, setting it inside the player before sitting down next to Peeta. There is an almost unbearable tension in the room, ever since our return from Command and I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. As the footage of the Victory Tour begins, I twist my fingers until Peeta puts his large hand over mine.

 

“We’re still not talking to each other here, are we?” he asks gently, kneading the tension from my fingers.  

 

“No. You came to me and apologized, actually. Told me that it was unfair for you to be offended because I only did what I had to do to save us both,” I chuckle at this, shaking my head at the way things have a way of twisting and turning.  “We agreed to try to be friends.”  

 

“I guess we made it work, didn’t we,” he quips, squeezing my hand before returning to look at the screen. Caesar Flickerman goes on and on about the Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12, positively exuberant about his Lethal Lovebirds.  When the footage for District 11 finally rolls around, we watch as Peeta delivers his speech to Rue and Thresh’s family. Peeta appears truly moved by his speech, so much so, he turns with a hollow expression and stares at me and I realize he’s teared up.

 

“This is unbearable,” he sniffles, wiping his nose.

 

“We had an argument after that speech,” I tell him, searching for every scrap of information to make him help him understand those days. “I told you about Snow visiting me in 12 but at this point in the tour, I hadn’t told you. When the old man was shot, you were furious that I had kept that from you and felt so responsible for his death. I didn’t think you’d ever speak to me again.”

 

“But I did,” he says quietly. “We got through the Tour.”

 

I nod. “Yes but just barely. It was a...rough period. My nightmares - I told you that the Games gave us both nightmares - they were out of control because of the stress. But you..” I let my voice fade.  

 

“What did I do, Katniss?” he prods.

 

I smile, lost in the memory of his arms around me, warding off my terrors, making me feel safe. “You came to me one night when I was in the middle of my nightmares and you stayed with me. And every night after that, we...we slept together. We continued to sleep together after we were reaped, in the Training Center.  We kept each other from going crazy.” I look up at him and feel suddenly cold because I truly believe that I will never have him close to me like that again.  I stand suddenly, my stomach in knots and I almost want to cry, because I would give the world to have him hold me like that again.

 

I pretend to fiddle with the screen when I feel him come up behind me.  Without warning, his arms wind around my waist.  It’s so easy, so right for him to touch me that way that the relief I feel almost makes me whimper.  My breath hitches and he turns me around, while I try to hide just how good, how perfect it feels to have him hold me.

 

“We’ve been through so much together, haven’t we?”

 

I nod, scowling that every memory of me is now gone, everything that made us who we were.  One giant rock and a little determination had erased all the blood, sweat and tears that we had shed together.

 

“Everything is there, Katniss. I’m not like those cases that Dr. Aguilar talks about, those people who forget and never remember anything again. There’s this...it’s like a window and I can see my memories on the other side. They’re there, all jumbled but they are waiting for me to sort them out. I want to open the window or break the glass but I can’t get to them. I don’t have the key.  And then my dreams…”

 

“You have dreams?” I ask, feeling more hopeful than I have in a long time.

 

“Yes.  I dream of a jungle. I’m fighting or I’m with you on a beach but I’m...scared all the time…”

 

“The Arena!  You’re dreaming about the Quarter Quell arena!” I exclaim, pulling away to frantically press the buttons that will move the disk forward, skipping the interviews, the endless commentary by the Capitol and the Game Makers. “Here!” I say as the broadcast shows the Cornucopia in the midst of a body of water and a beach that surrounds it like a pie, slices radiating out from the center. Now I know what it means but then, it was Wiress who had held the key to understanding the nature of that Arena.  I watch Peeta’s face light up in recognition.

 

“Tick-tock. It’s a clock,” he chants in sottovoice.

 

“Yes!” I say, practically punching the air with happiness. “It was a clock.” I say before practically rambling.  “During the run up to the Quell, the Victors made a show of solidarity. As usual, you blew everything up by telling everyone I was pregnant,” I smile and he chuckles with me. We resume our seats, understanding dawning on him.

 

“That was what Plutarch was talking about today,” he says.

 

“Yes. The Victors were trying to stop the games. Everybody’s strategy was different but you brought down the house by telling all of Panem that we were married and expecting a child. It almost stopped the games but President Snow refused to cancel, even though the entire Capitol protested.” I shake my head.  “Snow rigged those Games to get us sent back in so he could punish me in particular for setting rebellions off in the Districts.”

 

“And you survived. Not only did you survive, you blew up the Arena,” Peeta says as he watches the fighting that ensues in the Cornucopia.  “Finnick saved your life right there,” he points at the screen.

 

“He saved your life several times also. That’s why I can’t stand what’s happening to him and Annie. He took care of us in every way he could.”  

 

Peeta nods. “It’s good that you added freeing Annie in your list of requirements to become the Mockingjay.”

 

We lapse into silence as we continue to watch. My heart races as Peeta approaches the forcefield. I grip his hand and am rewarded with a squeeze of his own as he watches himself being flung back against the ground.

 

I watch myself on the screen as I become hysterical, almost running Finnick through with an arrow before I understand that he is trying to revive Peeta.  The intensity of that moment rushes back to me and I’m back in that sweltering jungle, begging Peeta not to die, kissing him because his heart had stopped. I’m back at the end of the Quarter Quell again and I reach an emotional limit. How many times have I come close to losing him?  How many times have I been forced to look into the abyss of my grief because everything had conspired at one point or another to take him away from me?  

 

By the time he is back on his feet in the video, I am no longer able to see as tears blind my vision. Peeta pauses the recording and I make no attempt to stem the flow of tears anymore. I’m in both places at once, trying to make my way through his imminent loss and failing miserably each time.  He kneels in front of me, trying to capture my unfocused vision.

 

“Katniss?” he asks as I wipe my face unceremoniously with the back of my sleeve.

 

“I...I’ve been...I’ve been losing you, it seems, since this all started. We fought...so hard to keep each other alive. It’s just hard to watch. That’s all,” I say.

 

Peeta studies me, considering his words before he speaks. “I’ve spent most of my life infatuated with you.  I thought, if I could just get the courage to talk to her, if I could just figure out a way to make her notice me…”

 

“There was the bread…” I remind him.

 

“Yes, but I never said a word to you.  I was always so intimidated.  I used to say to myself, if I get my hands on that girl, I’ll make her love me.  And now...well...I don’t even know what the hell I did to deserve you. It’s so stupid and ironic the way life is.”

 

“You gave up everything for me, Peeta.  That’s how you won me over,”  I answer quietly, the discomfort unbearable, for I was never one to dwell on my feelings overlong.  “But you’re right, it’s all gone. You don’t have to feel obligated to….don’t worry if you don’t..”

 

“Katniss,” he firmly interrupt. “I may not remember a whole lot but I feel things and now I understand that they are left over from my old feelings, all tied to memories I no longer have access to.”  He puts his hands on my shoulders and grips them.  “I haven’t sorted it all out yet but I have deep feelings for you. I think about you all the time.  Don’t...give up on me just yet.” he pleads.

 

“I’ve never given up on you - and I won’t start now,” I tell him, which earns me a hug that leaves me gasping for more.

 

After several moments, he pulls back and looks into my eyes, his color rising again until his neck and cheeks are flushed scarlet. “Were we...I mean...were we ever...intimate?”

 

I bite my lip.  This is it. This is what I have been both moving towards and most dreading.  I close my eyes, wondering if I should just procrastinate it, talk my way through the end of all this or just get it over with, come what may. Perhaps I will confirm all of Rye’s theories about me. Perhaps I’ll horrify him.

 

But I know the answer before I even pose the question to myself.  Without a word, I press the buttons on the video, stopping on that night on the beach, the one that changed everything between us.  The sun is setting on the false theater - maybe the sunset itself is a projection of the Gamemakers’ pleasure - the sky splashed with the colors that Peeta loves the most. I cast a glance at Peeta, his face a mask of confusion, studying both the screen and me. I can’t look, not at him, not at the projection. I turn away just as his voice fills the room.

 

_“Katniss,” he says softly, “it’s no use pretending we don’t know what the other one is trying to do.”_

 

I make my way over to the drawer that holds my few precious belongings. Lifting the lid of a small box inside, I pull out a locket, his locket. He continues to speak from the recorded footage, the words of Peeta, a different Peeta from the one who watches, and I’m hard pressed to say which one is more real than the other.

 

_“I don’t know what kind of deal you think you’ve made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well.  So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us.”_

 

“Filthy liar and traitor,” I mutter under my breath as I stare at the locket in my hand. I don’t know if Peeta’s heard me, as I have yet to turn around and face what is coming.

 

 _“Why are you saying this now?”_ I hear myself ask.

 _“Because I don’t want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you die, and I live, there’s no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You’re my whole life,” he says. “I would never be happy again.”_ There is a pause, perhaps where I try to object. _“It’s different for you. I’m not saying it wouldn’t be hard. But there are other people who’d make your life worth living.  Your family needs you, Katniss.”_

 

I rub my finger over the locket, pressing the tiny clasp that causes it to unfold.  There, within, are the faces of the ones I love - Prim laughing, my mother and Gale, giving a rare smile to the camera.  Everything. That’s what he offered me.  Not just his life, but my future, with Gale.  He worries whether we’ve ever been intimate. What could be more intimate than this? I turn as the disc continues to recite our words back to us through faces once our own. Peeta is no longer looking at the screen but at me.

 

I hold out the locket, which he takes in his hand, studying it with great care, his forehead furrowed in concentration.

 

 _“No one really needs me,”_ he says, without self-pity, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  Peeta looks up from his contemplation of the locket, his eyes now fixed on the screen.

 

_“I do,” I say. “I need you.”_

 

He struggles on screen, ready to protest. And I kiss him.  There is nothing bland or passive about it.  The sky has gone thankfully dark so it is just an outline in the forest, highlighted by the false stars and a sudden, full moon.  But it’s clear what comes next. I turn away but the sounds, much less muted than I’d hoped, fill the room.  He protests - he was always so much more considerate than me. I want to cover my ears, for shame, for embarrassment and for something else - the way the sound of our abandon stokes the same fire within me again, makes me wet and breathless because I miss Peeta’s arms, his lips, but also, that fire that told me no matter what, I was alive. That there were appetites that were as demanding as hunger, other desires that did more than just help us survive. I want Peeta, want to go to that place again and I know I can’t.

 

 _“Why should I care about them?”_ my voice replies huskily and it is clearly all the encouragement he needs.  For several long moments, Peeta and I try, in the best way that we can, under circumstances that are beyond inconceivable, to give each other a taste of paradise.  His name on my lips, the gasps that the hot, humid island air can’t quite swallow, the suffocating heat of our bodies writhing against one another, each kiss, each caress, each sound etched in my memory, my body and now, perhaps, in his mind.  I finally glance at the screen, where I am clearly climaxing over him, trying in every way to protect that very private moment from thousands of prying eyes, suppressing gasps and moans that force their way into the night.

 

And then come the tears, the ones on screen, the ones on my face and now, on Peeta’s. It is a bitter pill to swallow as our voices, quiet, full of loss and desperation, meander into the sterile room.

 

 _“I love you Katniss, I’ve always loved you.  I’m sorry it had to be like this,”_ his voice shakes and I know now as I did then, that he is apologizing that our first time had to on the beach, in front of a nation, though the audience at the time believed I was already with child.

 _“I love you, Peeta,”_ I say though my tears. _“Not just for the cameras.”_ My whispered words spill from the screen before I take his mouth again and kiss him, an intense, burning kiss of longing and sadness.  

I turn away from the images of us, not even daring to look at Peeta in his chair, and try to hide my tears. He asked me if I loved him. He asked me if we’d been intimate. And I realize that my fear was never about the sex, never about the actual act, though that was mortifying enough. No, I am afraid that the depth of my need for him will be revealed in such an incontrovertible way that the Peeta of today, the Peeta who is not bound to me in the same way he was before, will be overwhelmed by the reality of it and run away, unable to reciprocate or give me even a fraction of what he had once given so freely to me.  Or worse, he would feel obligated and falsify a feeling he did not really feel.

As I suffer these thoughts, I hear the sound of the television go silent.  I rub at my eyes, trying furiously to hide the evidence of my heartbreak when I sense him behind me.  There is a moment where everything feels suspended - time, air, memory - all hang in tension, waiting for something to tip the balance one way or the other.

It’s intolerable and I’m tired, tired beyond all comprehension.  “You don’t owe me anything,” I whisper, forcing things to move, to go beyond this unbearable suspension.  He can walk away, he can become so confused that nothing might ever make sense to him again. He can believe his brother after the evidence of my seduction on national television, for all to take apart and examine like an action sequence.  I wait for one of these things, or all of them at once.

“I never mentioned the baby,” he says, in the same low tone as mine. It takes me surprise, for it’s the last thing I thought would preoccupy him.

“Because none of that was for the audience,” I turn, finally finding the courage to look into eyes that bore nakedly down into mine; dark, stormy, full of kinetic energy.  “That...that was for us.”

He nodded imperceptibly, searching my puffy, swollen, worn face.  Without warning, his hand is on my cheek, his other arm around my waist.  I am flush against him, my nose just brushing his lips. It sets off an explosion of electricity along my nerve endings but it also intensifies the fear that I’ve been struggling with.   

“I owe you my life,” he says.  “But that’s not the point here, is it?”

I shake my head, trying not to stare at his mouth, wishing at once that there was no space and yet infinite space between us.

“I...Katniss…I...” he says, breathlessly, shaking his head before he brings his lips down to mine, as if his words have run out.  He burns, as if with fever, sick with what he can’t say, words that lay festering within and can only be drawn out by kissing me.  And I want to get lost in it, I want to drown out this dark hole we live in, and the blank space in his mind. But it would be an illusion for both of us. I pull back, breaking off his kiss.  

“Please, Peeta…” I plead. “You don’t...owe me...anything.  It was another time, when you were...”

“Whole?  Complete?  I’m the same Peeta I was then!” He pulls me up against him again, gripping me.

“No...no you’re not!” I say, backing out of his arms but he holds me fast.  I place my palms against his chest.  “Those experiences we shared, the things we went through, they were fundamental to the way that you felt about me. You don’t have those memories and though I truly believe they will come back, it’s our memories that make us who we are.  Without them, you aren’t the same person!”

He deflates when I say this, appearing conflicted between letting me go and pulling me in closer. He may feel whatever it is he feels, but it can’t be what he felt on that beach, when he was begging me to take his life in exchange for mine.  

I raise my hand to his face, which he borrows into.  It’s so natural that it melts my heart.  “That Peeta - he loved me completely. You saw what he was willing to do. Can you honestly say that you love me?”

“I…” he says but stops, the words dying in his mouth.  It’s enough for me. I nod and step back. This time, he lets me go.  

His hesitation guts me but I try not to let it destroy me. I swallow the lump in my throat as his arms fall to his side. I can’t stand the distance between us but I won’t impose myself on him. I won’t.  I make to turn but he captures my hand.

“It would be unfair to tell you that I love you. I’m not sure what it is I feel. But it’s so strong, Katniss. It wakes me up in the middle of the night, when I search for you, sure that you’re next to me.  When I bake, your tastes, your preference are always on my mind.  When I think of anything, the first thought I have is of you.  I don’t know if it’s love but if you give me a chance, I’ll figure it out. I just need time.”

“Peeta, you have all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere, and the the world is so uncertain now anyway,,” I say. Suddenly, I’m exhausted, swaying on my feet. It’s too much and I feel like I’ve hit a physical wall that I can’t get over.

Peeta observes me before he takes my hand and tugs me over to my bed. I protest weakly but the morning has been intense and my head feels heavy.  

“You look wiped out,” he says as he pulls back the covers. Kneeling before me, he undoes my boots, pulling them off and setting them neatly under my bed.  “I think you need a break.”

I nod. It’s overwhelming, this exhaustion, and I feel like I can’t take two more steps or I’ll fall down.  I chalk it up to the emotional intensity of the morning. But I also know my mind will be racing for a long while. I’m not sure how much rest I’ll really get.

Peeta pulls the blanket up to my chin. When he moves the hair from my face, I don’t want him to take his hand away. I want to beg him to stay and hold me, the way he used to. But we’ve already established that it would be unfair to impose that on him and so I bite my tongue instead, and swallow the longing, conceding one small gift to myself when he leaves a kiss on my lips and I kiss him back.

“I’m going to go. We can meet at reflection?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound as cool as possible.  Clearly, I fail, because he studies my face for a beat too long before lowering his head to kiss me again, this time more deeply and I don’t keep my hands to myself, tugging him down closer to me.  I think as his tongue sweeps my mouth, _he’s killing me, he’s killing me with his love that only looks like love_. But if this is how a person has to go, then I guess I’ve chosen my end. Because the feeling he leaves me with when he pulls back is like flying, my pounding heart struggling not to explode from my chest.  And it continues to hammer like that long after he’s turned and shut the door behind him.

**XXXXX**

Miraculously, I fall asleep and stay that way until dinner time. When I wake,  I realize I’ve been dreaming, leaving me with a warm and delicious feeling of happiness I somehow associate with Peeta.  This makes me both happy and miserable at the same time, because my love for him blazes on but there is no guarantee that he will ever feel that way again for me.

 

I’m famished, even though my thoughts and feelings are in disarray, I have an acute hunger that makes me almost sick to my stomach. I splash my face and smooth out the wrinkles of my uniform before racing out of the room. I wonder if I should message Peeta to meet me at the dining hall but decide against it. What more can I do without alienating him? He already knows I love him. He knows what we shared. I’m not one for so much romance but it seems that the next move is his.

 

I’m late, it seems, for a meal with my people since I slept through most of the afternoon, so I wolf down my rations in the most undignified way. I’m still hungry and remember the cheese buns in the kitchens, wondering whether there might still be some left but I know, without Peeta, I won’t get within two feet of the ovens without being stopped by District 13 personnel. I strum my fingers impatiently on the table until the announcement for a meeting during Reflection is announced. I remember my meeting with command early in the morning and realize I have one more hurdle to overcome before I can officially put this day to rest.

 

As people file into the massive meeting area, I feel a warm hand clasp mine.  I jump at the invasion but see that it is my sister at my side.

 

“Prim!” I say, genuinely happy to see her.

 

“Hey, they’ve been announcing this all day. I bet you have something to do with it,” she jokes, though the lightness was superficial. There is a seriousness to her eyes that betrays the importance of this meeting to everyone.  Prim discreetly points out the small pox scars visible on the faces of many in attendance.  She whispers quietly, “They’ve suffered a lot here.”  I nod but can’t help but add, “So did District 12,” because you can hardly compare wiping out an entire District full of people with something like that and even if you could, I’m not interested in feeling sorry for District 13 or anyone else for that matter.

 

My mother enters, leading a group of patients, among whom is Finnick. He is in a hospital gown, tying a knot on a piece of rope.  He’s clearly disoriented but gorgeous, even in the idiotic gown.  I cross over to where he stands, gazing distractedly around him. When I finally capture his attention, his eyes light up.  

 

“Finnick, how are you?” I ask.

 

He shrugs, “Why are we here?” he says instead.

 

“I told Coin I’d be their Mockingjay,” I say. “I made her promise immunity for the other Victors and commit to rescue Annie at the earliest possible moment.”

 

His face changes, losing that aspect of a lost, broken doll. “I worry so much that Annie might be forced to say something that can be construed as traitorous. This is good. This is really good,” he beams, ceasing for a moment to tie and untie the noose.

 

“Yeah, it was one of her major conditions,” comes a voice behind me, a voice that sends shivers up and down my spine.

 

“Peeta!” Finnick says, now full of his old joviality. “Were you there?”  

 

Peeta chuckles, giving me a meaningful look. “It was very dramatic, to say the least.”  

 

I’m shaking like a leaf now, because of the announcement, wondering how Peeta will handle himself. As if reading my mind, I feel his warm hand clasp my cold one, warming it with his own. The tremors die down. I let him hold my hand, squeezing it occasionally in response to him. I can do anything, be anything, as long as I have him, however I can get him.

 

Coin begins without preamble and tells everyone gathered that I have agreed to become the Mockingjay, under the condition that all Victors will be granted a full pardon after the fall of the Capitol for any damage they may do to the rebel cause. This is greeted with boos and derisive stares. I suppress the desire to shrink into Peeta and hide my face in his chest.  I pretend to ignore the disapproval as Coin waits for the crowd to calm down before continuing.

 

_“But in return for this unprecedented request, Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the Victors determined by the law of District Thirteen. As would her own. Thank you.”_

 

These words take me by surprise. I glance up at Peeta, whose eyebrows are raised.

 

“I guess if you step out of line, we’re all dead,” he says.

 

**XXXXX**

 

**A/N - (placed here for hyperlinks)**

**First of all, Happy New Year!  This chapter was truly frightening for me to write. I was afraid I’d get it all wrong and then what?  But after months of avoidance, I’ve broken through it. The rest of the story has started to flow again. I’m so grateful to all of you who stuck with me, messaged me, railed at me, got upset with me and generally showed me you still care about this story.  I am committing, once and for all to finish it. I have a ficlet called** _My Favorite Mistake_ **that I need to finish by January 7th, then I will update this fic and** _The Pearl of the Antilles_ **. Finally, I have one last ficlet to finish, which was my Fandom4LLS submission called** _Six Weeks_ **and, barring any other challenges (S2SL, for example), that will be my update schedule from now on.**

 

 **HG Fanfic Rec: I spent the last month writing drabbles for a Christmas Writing Challenge called** [ **Yuletide in Panem** ](http://yuletidinpanem.tumblr.com) **. The collection of ten stories written by me is on** [ **ffnet** ](https://www.fanfiction.net/story/story_edit_property.php?storyid=11699103) **posted as a fic by the same name and on** [ **AO3** ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1117202) **, there is an actual collection for the challenge which also features stories posted on tumblr by other authors.  If you have a hankering for Christmas fics, that’s a good place to go.**

 

 **I also wrote a Gadge fic for** [ **Winter in Panem** ](http://winterinpanem.tumblr.com/) **called** _The Mass of Angels_ **,  which took place at the end of December. Head over to the tumblr page to see that collection of stories.**

 

 **And finally, I wrote a Growing Back Together fic called** _Come Away With Me_ **and a New Year’s Eve fic which was part of a Secret Snowflake challenge, called** _Perfect Storm_ **. All are on my page.**

 

**I didn’t mean for it to happen, but like all my other writing, it just happened!  Thank you for reading and reviewing and just hanging in there!  I won’t let that happen again.**

 

**T**

 


	15. Chain of Wildflowers

 

**_There will be time, there will be time_ **

**_To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;_ **

**_There will be time to murder and create,_ **

**_And time for all the works and days of hands_ **

**_That lift and drop a question on your plate;_ **

**_Time for you and time for me,_ **

**_And time yet for a hundred indecisions,_ **

**_And for a hundred visions and revisions,_ **

**_Before the taking of a toast and tea._ **

 

 **_from_ ** **The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,** **_by T. S. Eliot_ **

 

Peeta walks Prim and me back to our quarters. Though he holds my hand tightly, we don’t speak.  There was no mistaking the threat in Coin’s speech. Though I had made my demands and forced her to go public with them, she’d made her own demands on me, proving that she would not let an affront go without a proper response. I understand, not for the first time, how dangerous Coin could be.

 

“Would you like to come in for tea?” Prim asks Peeta when we arrive at the door of our suite.

 

“No, I’m going to go check on Rye,” He gives her his most winning smile, which seems to satisfy Prim. She turns to go inside and as soon as she does, I make to follow her but he stops me.  

 

“It’s going to be okay tomorrow.” Peeta says.

 

I nod, though I am anything but reassured. “We just have to be very careful now. A lot of people are counting on us.  All of District 12, in fact.”

 

“And the rebellion?  Panem?” he squeezes my hand for emphasis. “It’s a lot to take in.”

 

“Well, we’re Victors, remember?” I say with bitter sarcasm and only just come to understand how truly angry I am at this whole situation.  “We’re the ones who can survive anything they throw at us. We have to find a way to make this happen too.”

 

Peeta shrugs.  “Yeah. Just wish somebody had asked us first.”

 

“The ability to choose was never something that was really an option for us.  Not during the Reaping. Not in the Arenas. And certainly not now. Coin sees me as a threat. She implied as much in today’s speech.”

 

“She’ll have to learn that trying to get you to do something you don’t want to do never seems to go well for anyone. It’s harder to groom a Mockingjay then to catch one,” he says, a slight smile lighting up his features and I can’t help but smile in response. He can make any situation better, with a clever turn of phrase and a brightening of his blue eyes that I can’t help but get a little lost in.

 

Peeta looks down at his shoes, than back up at me. He appears to struggle with something and I wait patiently for him to come to some kind of conclusion.  Finally, after several moments of strained silence, in which he fidgets and clears his throat, he leans in and leaves a kiss on my cheek. It’s quick but the warmth it leaves is soothing and gentle, so unlike the events of late.  He seems to feel the same way, because he lingers before pulling away, shoving his hands deep into his jumper pockets. After watching the Games together earlier, there is still a lingering strangeness between us but also a certain relief. It’s all out there now and there isn’t any way he can feel deceived by me any longer, no matter what his brother puts in his head.

 

“I’ll come get you tomorrow,” he says, slightly breathless.

 

“I’m going hunting with Gale in the morning.  I’ll meet you at the studio instead?”

 

He nods and smiles again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes and there is a slight strain around his lips.  With an awkward grace, he turns away and walks in the direction of the compartment he shares with his brother.  I wonder at his change of mood and let my gaze linger on him a while longer before the door slides open and my mother greets me.

 

“Katniss,” she says.  “Are you coming inside? I don’t want Buttercup to get out.”

 

As if on cue, he hisses at me from on top of the table where he is perched, as if in wait for me.   Prim picks him up and settles in the middle of her bunk, murmuring and petting him. Soon, the loud rumbling of his satisfaction fills the room and despite my pure dislike for the furbag, it fills me with a deep sense of comfort also.  So when my mother puts her hand on my arm, I’m actually caught by surprise, even though the size of the living quarters makes it virtually impossible for anything surprising to happen.

 

“Mom?” I ask, feeling that heaviness in my limbs again, the vague hunger that seems to plague me all day, follow by a wave of nausea that forces me to sit down.

 

“Katniss, are you okay?” she asks quietly, her glance falling to where Prim is occupied with the cat.

 

Today feels like a day for truths. I want to share it with her, all of it. A part of me holds back - it would make it too real if I speak the words out loud. But I’m not stupid and neither is my mother. Now that Coin upped the ante of her game, I have very few luxuries left to me and denial is not one of them.

 

“Nausea.  Exhaustion.  Some spotting.  Hunger,” I say and I can hear how dead my voice sounds, even to me. I see Peeta lying in a hospital bed, a tube draining the fluid from his brain, and remember what it felt like to be so close to losing him. I think of his hands on me, his mouth. The amazing feeling of being close to him and the distance that his amnesia has created. I think of Rye and his bottomless rage, as vast as his love for his brother and grief for his family.  And I realize I may not be able to handle all of this after all. Because some things happen to people that they are not equipped to handle.

 

Mom kneels down in front of me and studies me, pressing gently on the tops of my breasts. I flinch. “Ow!” I say, brushing her hand away.

 

“I’m going to bring you something. All of the medical supplies are under lock and key but I’ll try,” she says for to herself.  “You have to know once and for all, Katniss. You can’t keep ignoring the signs.”

 

I nod but I don’t say anything, just scowl at her in irritation. But she’s right. The truth is there and won’t be turned away, no matter how much I want to ignore it. Propos. Fighting. War.  And now this. I realize all I want is to go to sleep.

 

“I think...I think I’ll lay down,” I say, carefully removing my boots and socks. I consider a shower - it would be refreshing after all - and stumble towards the small lavatory.  My mother picks up the clothes I’ve dropped and hands me a towel. She got what she wanted and now leaves me to my own devices.  When I climb into bed afterwards, I find a square, foil package on the stand next to my bunk.

 

“What’s this?” I ask, eyeing it with distrust.

 

My mother smiles at me as Prim, leaving a dozing Buttercup on her bed, makes her way over and picks it up, examining it. “Those are crackers.  Before you get out of bed in the morning, nibble on them. They’ll make your stomach feel better.”

 

“Are you sick Katniss?” Prim asks with sudden concern, touching my forehead with the back of her hand.

 

“Not really. Just a little stomach upset, is all. I’ll be fine.” I answer.  “Don’t worry yourself, little Duck,” I stare at the crackers with interest.  “Do you have more?” I ask, pulling one of the salty squares out and taking a bite of the corner.

 

“I brought home a few packs,” she answers, pointing to the counter, where three more foil packages stand in wait for my appetite.  I smile and take the crackers from Prim.  

 

“I’ll have some in the morning but I think I’ll have these now,” I say, chewing carefully, ignoring, for one more night at least, the implication of all the signs my body is giving me. Tomorrow I’d do the propos and afterwards, I’ll put myself in my mother’s hands, and figure out a way to deal with things. But right now, I decide all I’m going to do is sleep.  My complications will still be there in the morning.

 

I tug at the small shade on each bunk, which does a remarkably good job of blocking out the lights of the compartment. Wishing my family good night, I roll over and find, despite everything, that it is remarkably easy to slip into oblivion.

 

**XXXXX**

 

Gale and I are shunted up to the surface by one of the almost infinite elevators that are part of life in District 13. As Coin indicated, Gale and I are fitted with ankle bracelets, and reminded that we only had two hours. As if we would actually try to escape. Funny how little she knows me. I have everyone who matters to me in District 13. Where exactly would I go?

 

I’m handed my bow and arrows - everyone in District 13 is assigned a weapon but they are not allowed to keep them in their quarters.  I had to check in my weapons when I returned from my visit to District 12.  It’s been so long since I’ve held it that I can almost hear the sigh of relief from the wood as my hand molds itself to it.  I pass my fingers over the worn leather of my father’s jacket and it’s like coaxing my old self out of it again.

 

Gale, who carries his bow and a few snares besides, tests the tautness of the string before indicating with his head in the direction of a group of trees, after which there is the sprawl of the forest. I follow him on silent feet, watching the sun just peeking up over the trees.

 

We don’t speak. That was never really our way, especially at the beginning of the hunt, when it is time to listen and watch the forest for signs of potential prey. We are like two parts of one being, anticipating each other’s movements, watching each other’s back.  Back home, a wrong move or a loud conversation would scare away game and leave us with nothing more than an empty stomach.  It’s been so long since I’ve hunted that I have to rest often.  But this is as close to happiness as I can get, being out here, in the open.

 

The animals are remarkably docile and it takes no time at all for our bags to become bulging with rabbit, squirrels and turkey.  It’s such a big haul that we decide to spend the rest of our time lounging by a nearby pond while Gale cleans the game.

 

“I start filming today,” I say, with a deep scowl as I chew on mint leaves.

 

“Yeah,” Gale answers, barely breaking a sweat as he skins the rabbit. He’s been more consistent with training while I’d just as soon take a nap on the nearest rock.   I don’t know if it’s the frown or the way I stare despondently over the lake but Gale casts a glance in my direction, shaking his head.  “You know, Coin and Command aren’t your enemy. It’d be great if you stopped treating them like it. I mean, they did break you out of the Arena. They got the refugees out of District 12 after it was firebombed.”

 

“Not out of the kindness of their hearts, Gale.  Everything they’ve done has been for their own purposes.”

 

“Who cares?  This is our chance!  We can finally get rid of the Capitol once and for all.  So they saved you so that you could become the Mockingjay. So they rescued survivors because they need people who can actually have children. Who cares?”  He proceeds to skin the squirrel in that practiced, methodical way he had of doing everything.  “You act like nobody else but you can have an agenda except you.”

 

“I do not have an agenda!” I respond, more than a bit annoyed with him for arguing for the other side, whoever that side was.  

 

“Everybody has an agenda. You were trying to survive, keep your family alive, save Peeta,” he pauses as if he can’t get past that little item on the list.  “Coin’s trying to overthrow the Capitol and end the nation’s oppression. How is that something to get angry about?”

 

“I don’t exactly like getting manipulated into things,” I say, astounded that he, of all people, doesn’t want to understand that.

 

“Well, it’s a little late to be worrying about that.  I got your back, Catnip,” he says, with more animation than I’ve seen in a long time from him. “But you have to get behind all of this.  This is what is going to change things - for everyone in Panem.”

 

I scrape a stalk of mint leaves, the bright green burrowing under my fingernail. At some level, I get exactly what he’s saying but I can’t shake the mistrust. I nod even though he can’t see me.

 

“I’ll fall in line, soldier,” I say, trying to soften the tension that seems to be part and parcel of our interactions lately.  

 

Gale gives a half smile as he cleans up the remaining blood, casting the skinned parts and entrails out into the woods for some scavenger to find. “Let’s head back. Out time’s almost up. Want to meet up again tomorrow?”

 

I stand up and stretch, taking a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh air.  “Yeah. It’s good to have some fresh game on the lunch menu for a change.”

 

Gale chuckles and shakes his head.  In silence, we make our way to the elevators that will lead us back underground again.  I want to trust and be at ease but I’ve seen too much of fighting and bloodshed. I’ve seen violence up front and unvarnished. And I’ve seen too much of manipulation. The last thing I want to be is another piece in someone’s game.

 

I pause at that, as the thought of Peeta hits me like a blow to my stomach and realize how much I miss him already. He’d know how to make sense of everything, much better than I can.  It’s frightening to realize all the ways I need him.

 

**XXXXX**

 

“I’m afraid it isn’t much - District 13 is not in the habit of producing large scale feature films of any kind,” Plutarch says the when Gale leaves me at the studio. “We had to improvise on a few things but their engineers have been very cooperative. I think we can still produce a good product,” he rambles on as I take in the small room with screens surrounded by glass. Outside is a stage with giant green screens in the background. Even with the hunting, I arrive early. I had remembered to nibbled on the crackers like my mother instructed, though they were far less appetizing in the morning than they’d been the night before.  Even so, it actually had the effect she said it would and I felt significantly better at breakfast than I did the morning before.

 

Plutarch continues to talk, mostly about technical issues such as lighting and the difficulties of dubbing and other things I have absolutely no interest in. I let my mind wander to last night, touching my stomach involuntarily. A sudden rush of terror floods my insides and I begin panting at the thought that maybe, just maybe, my mother’s admonishments might be right. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, as if to provide relief from the pressure building up inside.  Plutarch is oblivious to my distress and I mask it further by circling out of the booth and onto the stage, pretending to find the vast, green screens before me of infinite interest.  

 

“We’ll add in the scenery during the editing phase. It will appear on the green screen when we film,” he continues. I nod out of politeness but continue to meditate on the screen before me.  As he drones on, a door to my left opens. I can hardly believe my eyes when I realize it is none other than Effie Trinket, District 12’s escort, and now, apparently, a revolutionary.  She wears the same standard-issue jumpsuit but she’s wrapped her usually brightly colored hair in a turban.  She teeters in towering heels and brightens like a beacon when she sees me. Despite the completely ridiculous figure she strikes with her attempts at brightening the drab uniforms that pass for clothing here, I’m actually very happy to see her.

 

“Oh!” she exclaims as she hurries toward me.

 

“Effie!  What are you doing here?” I say as I fling my arms around her, nearly in tears at the sight of her.

 

“I’m a political refugee,” she says, pressing my hair away from my face.

 

“Plutarch rescued you?”

 

Effie smiles and rolls her eyes at the question. “Rescued, yes, if that’s what he calls it.”  She grips my arm and leans toward me. “You and I were both in the dark.  Now I’m condemned to this life of jumpsuits.”  The door slides open behind her and my heart flutters happily again when Peeta approaches, taking his place at my side. He smiles at Effie, who promptly clasps his hands in hers. “Dear, boy. You can't imagine how happy I am to see you!”

 

Peeta nods, allowing Effie’s effusions but clearly uncomfortable. He knows who she is - everyone in 12 knew who Effie Trinket was -  but he certainly doesn’t remember that Effie had become something more than just an escort, doesn’t remember that by the end of things, she’d become a part of the team that would see it’s Tributes return to District 12 as Victors at almost any cost.   He is unfailingly polite but completely oblivious as he listens to her.

 

“It’s so good to see friendly faces! Can you believe this place?” she exclaims, waving her hand in the air. “I miss...coffee!”

 

Peeta’s eyes widen with humor but he remains serene as we exchange a glance that speaks volumes about what is going on in our minds.

 

“I never knew any place could be so strict!  I mean, I thought at least in the higher ranks there’d be some side action.”  She adjusts her turban, which appears to be a schematic, most likely a map of District 13, which could actually be useful if her hair wasn’t wrapped up in it. I see Peeta's lips twitching in amusement as he feigns interests in Plutarch, who labors at the control panel of the studio. “Luckily, I remembered that this,” she indicates her coif, “was all the rage when I was coming up. You know, everything old can be made new again. Like democracy.” She pauses, swaying with the conviction of her own reasoning and I feel the familiar urge to shake her hard rise up in me, an urge that, for her sake,  I successfully push down.

 

“I have something for you,” she says, indicating towards a desk at the farthest corner of the room, where both Peeta and I obediently follow her. She sets down a large black flip book that I only now notice she is carrying. The leather is simple but supple, clearly of the highest quality.  As I sit down, I open the large cover to a series of sketches inside. There is no mistaking the hand that made them, or the pain of recognition.

 

“Cinna…” I whisper.

 

A symbol, an exact duplicate of my pin, adorns the inside cover. The sketches are nothing short of breathtaking.   A girl who looks like me with a suit, swatches of material, feathers, a quiver of arrows.  It’s stylish battle gear.  But it’s not me.  It’s The Mockingjay.

 

“He made Plutarch promise not to show you this,” she said. I turn the page and there I stand, arrow nocked, braid flying.  Effie continues, “Not until you’d decided to be The Mockingjay on your own.”

 

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I blurt out.

 

Effie nods, a shadow crossing her face. “Yes, dear,” she answers. Yet I already know this. I know I’ll welcome him in my nightmares tonight.

 

“Because of me,” I mutter.  Peeta looks at me with mixture of curiosity and compassion but that comprehension that comes from truly understanding is missing.

 

“He knew the risks. As we all do.  He believed in this revolution.  He believed in you,” Effie says.

 

I draw in a shaky breath.  “They’re beautiful.”

 

“They have it here. It’s been following you all over Panem.” Effie smiled sympathetically.  “There’s not much in the way of a prep team here but we will make you the best-dressed rebel in history.”

 

“Those sketches really are amazing,” Peeta says. I turn the book so that he can look through them, and watch him touch the pages with a certain awe.  “Cinna was a brilliant stylist, right?” Peeta asks.

 

“Yes,” I take a deep breath, remembering the tunnel that shunted me into the Quarter Quell arena, a smear of blood still on the glass as it launched me into a water world.  I hadn’t had time to process his death before I was forced to fight. I know Peeta doesn’t remember Cinna, doesn’t remember his elegance, his kindness, his talent. He doesn’t know how he won my trust the very first day I was in the tribute center, made me feel like I wasn’t just a piece of meat being buffed down and offered as a sacrifice to the Capitol.  

 

Peeta raises his eyes to mine and holds my gaze.  I swear in that moment he can read all my thoughts - the horror of Cinna’s death, the guilt and the grief.  As Effie speaks and Plutarch moves about the glass enclosure, it’s only he and I and the knowledge of things that always appear just beyond his reach.  And it’s suddenly all very overwhelming. How can I convey all the nuances, the infinite details of all that he has lost? Am I even up to it?  When he breaks off, he leaves me to this impossible task and I choose silence as my most reliable response.

 

It takes Effie an hour to get me ready, applying the makeup that will make me look as if I’ve just emerged from battle.  Peeta sits at the desk as Plutarch describes the scene, attempting to place me in the context of a great battle. The lines are simple, the demands uncomplicated but the looks of chagrin that I get from Effie and Plutarch, and even Peeta’s raised eyebrow tell me that I am not achieving the effect Plutarch hopes for. I say the words. I imagine the fighting, the fire, whatever I’m told will appear on the green screen during editing. But the words hold no meaning for me. They float just above my consciousness, a collection of sounds that do nothing to move me.

 

After several humiliating takes in which I perform worse than the previous one, I hear the sound of clapping. Scowling, I look to see Haymitch, walking towards me as he continues to applaud.

  
“And that, my friend, is how a Revolution dies,” comes his raspy voice, filling every corner of the room with the echo of his exhaustion. “Hello, Sweetheart,” he says.  

 

I simply stare at him - I don’t appreciate being laughed at and I certainly don’t like to have my pathetic attempts at acting be exposed to the ridicule of one like him. Even more so, I have still not forgiven him for his duplicity and don’t wished to be forced to be civil to him just because we are in District 13.  He carries a handkerchief which he uses to blow his nose and I realize he looks terrible.

 

“Is that how you greet an old friend,” he asks?

 

“Maybe I don’t recognize you sober,” I hiss.  I step off the stage and stride towards him.  Plutarch protests but I simply wave him off. “I need a minute.”

 

I lead Haymitch to the corridor adjacent to the studio. The moment we are alone, I turn on him and feel all the anger and frustration that’s been bottled up inside bubble up like a champagne bottle that is ready to burst.

 

I open my mouth to speak but Haymitch beats me to it and, for the first time, I see real anger from him also, though his speech is measured and controlled.

 

“I am still your mentor and we have a job to do.  So go ahead and let me have it.”

 

My eyes widen and I feel it build up inside of me. “You are a liar and a traitor.  Peeta almost died because you couldn’t trust us with the truth.  It was pure luck that I got him out of that Arena.  I thought we were a ‘team’?” I use air-quotes with derision because if there is a team at all here, it is a team of two. I would throw in my lot with Peeta over and over again before I went back to trusting Haymitch again.

 

“I had to do it. I’ve explained that to you already,” Haymitch answers.

 

“Doesn’t make it any better,” I retort.

 

“Have you said your piece?” he asks.

 

I cross my arms in front of me and shrug, the quiver of bows moving with my shoulders like odd bird wings.

 

“Fine. My turn.  Are you on vacation here or what?”

 

“Excuse me?” I say, dropping my arms, my hands balling into fists at my side until my knuckles are white.

 

“Look, Sweetheart, there’s a revolution going on here and I offer my sincerest apologies that we did not get your permission before it got started,” Haymitch lets every word carry his sarcasm, which infuriates me even more.  “But your little performance in there, constantly missing training and your general teenage moodiness are not helping your cause, or ours, at all. Sorry I lied.  But I am on my side, which is a hard place to be sometimes. Help me out by putting some effort on your part.”

 

“I am trying!”  I protest.

 

“No you’re not,” he retorts with more feeling than I’ve ever seen from him.  

 

I scowl, staring him down.  I still don’t trust him and don’t much like him but in terms of allies, I don’t have many and he could be useful. I don’t want to feel sorry for his withdrawals, his sniffling, his generally sickly appearance as he’s weaned off the white liquor.  I don’t want to miss being a part of his team so I nod stiffly instead and return to the studio area without looking back at him.

 

The propos is finally completed after lunch.  I’m exhausted and alone, as Haymitch has gone off to fit Peeta with a uniform, and I have a sudden urge for a snack and a nap. I know Plutarch isn’t satisfied with the results but I feel like an idiot every time I raise what should stand in as my flag and wave it.  

 

After another hour of torture, Effie says with forced cheerfulness, “Well, dear, that should do!  Beetee has asked me to bring you down to his lab.  It seems he has a surprise for you!”  She is probably as horrified by the results of my dismal propos as I am but she makes a valiant effort to hide the fact.  She takes me to a lower level that seems to be similar to where Peeta took me when he brought me to the bakery. District 13 hasn’t lost its lack of glamour so everything still looks the same to me.

 

When we arrive to the Special Defense level, however, I am taken completely by surprise when I see perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in District 13. It’s a replica of a meadow, filled with real trees and plants and alive with hummingbirds.  I find Beetee in a chair, sitting motionless, Gale and Peeta flanking him on either side, conversing easily.  It’s odd to see Gale and Peeta in the same space, talking like old friends.  In some poetic way, they should have been rivals for my affection, except that they’ve never behaved like rivals. Peeta is the picture of ease and Gale, at least, doesn’t have his scowl.

 

As I approach, Beetee sees me first and indicates toward the hummingbirds with his head.  “Can you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?”  he asks.

 

“I’ve never tried. Not much meat on them,” I answer.  Peeta draws my attention to a lovely green one feeding on an orange flower and I can’t help but be impressed at how beautiful they are.

 

“No, and you’re not one to kill for sport either,” he says.  “I bet they’d be hard to shoot.”

 

“You could snare them,” Gale says. “Lure them into a net and trap them inside.”

 

“But would that work?” Peeta asks.

 

“I’m not sure. It’s just an idea.” Gale answers.

 

“It could work,” Beetee says thoughtfully. “You’re using their natural instinct against them.  Thinking like your prey...that’s how you find their weaknesses.”

 

Something about snaring the hummingbird disturbs me so much that I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I turn towards Beetee. “You have something for me?”

 

Beetee straightens in his chair. “Yes, actually, I have something for all of you, including Finnick and Johanna.  I’ll see them later, I suppose,” he says as he admonishes us to follow him.  I look over towards Peeta, who is lost in thought and I realize I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with him all day and I feel the lack of it like a dull empty spot in my chest.  When Beetee gives me my advanced bows and arrows and shows me how they work, I wait patiently for Peeta to try out his rifle and Gale to play with his crossbow, a feeling of despondency settling in my bones.

 

Without warning, while Beetee is distracted with Gale,  Peeta clasps my hand and indicates the exit of the room.   I gladly leave the two of them talking about weapons and follow Peeta back through the grim hallways of District 13.  When we are away from Beetee, he pauses and tells me, “I was getting a little tired of all the company.”

 

“Me too. I’m not much for people you know.”

 

“I sort of got that impression,” he gives me a sly smile, which reaches his eyes, crinkling the skin around it. The sight of it makes me incredibly happy.

 

In no time at all, we are back at the Meadow we were observing earlier.  I think we are going to stop in front of the observation window but he pulls me along to a pair of sliding metals doors around the corner of what appears to be a hallway. When they slide open, Peeta leads me inside. The air is more humid than the air outside of what I now see is a greenhouse.  The lights are nothing like the phosphorescent light of our living areas - here they are soft and warm and the plants seem to reach up to capture every artificial ray.  

 

I take a deep breath and enjoy the smell of vegetation.  Growing, living, dying vegetation, the irony, pungent smell of black earth, pollen, insects, trees, flowering plants - I fill my lungs with the fragrance and forget the travesty of my propos, Cinna, my advanced weapons, my uniform.  I remember Peeta is with me and come back from my moment of joy to catch him watching me intently.”

 

“You like it?” he asks.

 

“Yes!  Very much!” I answer, making my way through the high grasses to a copse of trees that grow tall and proud towards the metal ceiling. I can almost hold on to the illusion if I refuse to look too closely.  “It reminds me of our meadow at home, just beyond the fence.”

 

“It’s not like being above ground, I guess,” Peeta says as he bends to pluck a few of the wild flowers.

 

He speaks but it is only after a few moments that I grasp the subtext in his words. I tilt my head to the side and look up at him. “Is that what this is all about?  My hunting with Gale?” I barely suppress a laugh, the darkening of his features clueing me in to the fact that maybe it might not be a good idea to tease him about this.

 

“If you’re trying to say I’m jealous, well…” He looks away in that boyish way he has of swinging his head as he flips away the hair that fall to his forehead. “I’ve been jealous of Gale since before I even met him. I was always so sure you two had something between you.”

 

The idea that Peeta could still feel jealousy over Gale is absurd, but then I remember he still the Peeta from before the Reaping, the Peeta who couldn’t even work up the nerve to speak to me at school, the boy who watched and waited, with no prospect of ever getting close to the object of his admiration. I step close to him, holding his gaze so he does not, under any circumstance, mistaken my words.

 

“You don’t have to be jealous.  He’s my best friend and he will always ever be my best friend. That’s it.”

 

Peeta smiles, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.  “I have this memory...of us on top of a building, maybe on top of the world,” he chuckles. “We had a picnic. We threw apples at the forcefield and they bounced back at us. You fell asleep on my lap,” he shows me something he is holding - a woven crown from the wild flowers he’d just picked. I’d been so caught up with his eyes, I hadn’t paid any heed to what he was doing with his hands.  Raising the crown, he fits it on my head.  I feel a sob rise up in my chest that I immediately pushed down.

 

“It was perfect,” he whispered.  “The fruit, the picnic, the heat…”

 

My heart is racing as he stares down at me covered in wildflowers. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “You said...you said you wanted to freeze that moment in time and live in it forever,” I pick a few of the flowers and begin deftly twining them together. “You asked me if I would allow it. And I said yes.”  Always yes, to him, to everything he asked for. Almost everything. I didn’t give him permission to die and now I’m so happy I stuck to my guns on that one.  I finish my handiwork and crown him with a simple version of my wildflower chain.  

 

Peeta smiles and it’s all the encouragement I need. I step up and kiss him on his smooth cheek. His hair is still not growing in from whatever treatment the Capitol had given him and I wondered briefly if it ever would again.  Regardless the feel of skin under my lips makes everything misfire in my brain and soon I can’t keep any of my ideas straight anymore.

 

He turns his face slightly and soon, his lips are against mine.  Far from the temerity of the last few days, Peeta grasps me by the waist and kisses me firmly, insistently, and I feel that familiar hunger rise up in me again. Pushing me back within the copse, a tree meets my back and I rest against it. I want this so much. I want him so much, it’s not pleasure. It burns me everywhere.

 

Surprisingly, and to my profound frustration, he pulls back, pointing upwards where a camera is perched inside of a tree. I frown in anger, all my joy and expectation shrivelling up in me. It’s just like the Arenas - you couldn’t breath or eat or die in peace without some lens fixed on your every misery.  Releasing a breath, I let him take me by the hand lead me out of the meadow.  With every step, I try to recover a sense of myself.

 

“Peeta, what you remembered was a picnic we had on the roof of the Training Center. It was the day before the Quarter Quell.”

 

Peeta smiles and nods his head. “Dr. Aguilar says I’m having breakthrough memories. It’s a good sign.  I have other flashes too but it’s hard to place them in any context. I don’t always know if they are memories or dreams…” He looks down at me. “But I feel more like...myself...as time passes.”

 

“That’s really good,” I say, my heart filled to bursting with the idea that Peeta might come back after all.  An idea comes to me and I brighten with excitement.  “You know, if you ever wonder whether what you are remembering is a dream or a real memory, just ask me.  I’ll tell you whether it’s real or not real,” I say as we step into an elevator.  I face him as the lights of the passing floors ding on the panel behind me.

 

“That’s very clever,” he says, clearly enthusiastic about the idea.  “Okay, here’s one.  You and Haymitch are not exactly on speaking terms.  Real or not real?”

 

He was starting with the obvious. “Real. I used to trust him but I don’t anymore. He knew about the rebellion and rebel plans to break us out of the Arena but he didn’t share it with us.”

 

“For strategic reasons, I suppose,” he says.

 

I glare at Peeta, not quite believing what I’m hearing. “Please tell me you’re not defending him.  You almost died.”

 

“I get that,” he says. “But...I think he’s trying to help us out now. He did give you the footage of the Games…”

 

I sigh, tiring of this topic. I have so many more problems than worrying about Haymitch. “Ask me something else.”

 

His lips curl into a wry smile. “Okay. You like to sleep on the right side of the bed, away from the wall and you always end up stealing the blankets. Real or not real?”

 

I can’t help but burst out with laughter.  “Real and real, though in all fairness, sleeping next to you was like sleeping next to a coal oven.”

 

Peeta nods, considering this.  His demeanor suddenly changes, becoming more serious. “You miss sleeping with me, Real or not real?”

 

My sharp intake of breath, together with the slow mechanical dings of the advancing floors, are now the only sounds in the elevator.  It’s an unfair question, because he surely doesn’t remember those nights on the train or in the Training Center. But somehow, this fact nothing to discourage my honesty. “All the time.”

 

“I don’t remember all of that but I miss it all the same. Is it possible to miss something you don’t remember?” he asks and I get a sense of how disorienting his gaps in memory must really be.  I have no frame of reference and don’t want to give him false comfort but the idea that I could have an association and now know what might be it’s origin is downright terrifying.  The elevator finally stops and I pull him along until we are at my quarters. I give him a meaningful look before swiping my arm before the pane, the doors silently sliding open.  He pauses imperceptibly before he follows me in.

 

I don’t say much. I think I’m going to die of nerves - how long has it been since we’ve done this? I would have probably tried for a nap anyway - I’ve been awake since before dawn and it’s already been a long day.  But the idea of him, now, with me is enough to chase my exhaustion away.  I kick my boots off and wordlessly encourage him to do the same.  The bunks aren’t terribly narrow - Prim sleeps next to Mom all the time - so I sit on the edge of mine and hold my hand out to him.  

 

Peeta grasps it without hesitation and takes a seat next to me.  I bend down to pull his pants leg up over his knee and press the sides of his prosthetic until I hear the tell-tale hiss that indicates his leg is free of the rest of him.  He makes to stop me but I take his hand and squeeze it.

 

“I’ve done this dozens of times already,” I say, trying for a reassuring smile. He’s nervous - I can tell by the slight tremor of his hand but, true to his nature, he lets me do whatever I want.  I slide over a bit, making room for him to scoot in towards the wall. It never occurred to me until now how inconvenient it might be for him to accommodate my sleeping preferences, what with his leg and all but I would never be able to sleep otherwise because I wouldn’t be able to protect him if I were pinned against the wall.

 

“You okay?” I ask as he settles onto the pillow.

 

“Yeah,” he says, laying awkwardly.  I recline next to him, carefully moving his arm out of the way so that I can claim my usual spot - head on his shoulder, my leg tangled around his whole one. As if it has a memory of its own, his arm comes to rest on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles on me and for the first time since I was released from the Arena, I’m finally home.  Not my mother or even my sister, not Buttercup or Gale.  It’s Peeta’s arms that finally convince me that I’m no longer in the Quarter Quell, no longer a tribute. I have other problems, of course. But I’m home. I’m safe. And with a little luck, I might even be loved.

 

“You’re happy with me, Real or not real?” he asks, so softly, I think I am imagining his words.

 

“Real,” I answer.  His response is to squeeze my shoulder before I feel his gentle unwinding, his thudding heart pounding more slowly until his breath evens out. The world falls away and I drift off into sweet dreams that fill me with a feeling of contentment that is in every way connected to Peeta.

 

**XXXXX**

 

My mother is not nearly as mortified as she could have been when she comes home to find Peeta and me sleeping in my bunk. I know because the flash of overhead lights as she enters followed by the way she gasps and quickly shuts them off wakes me just in time to watch her leave again.  I stretch, which is enough to rouse Peeta from his sleep also.  I lift myself on my elbow to watch as his eyes flutter open, and I’m stupidly mesmerized by his lashes as they reflect the gleam of the night light that is perpetually lit in the corner of our room.

 

“Sleep well?” I ask as his face comes to life.

 

“Yeah…” he says in a voice still gravelly from sleep.  He cards his hand through my now messy hair, brushing the loosened strands away from my face.  He uses his thumb to trace the top of my cheeks, which leaves me somewhat dizzy with expectation and the hope that he won’t stop. But at that moment, my stomach decides to rumble loudly with hunger which ruins the mood completely.

 

“I think someone needs to be fed,” he laughs, straightening up to put his leg back on.  I help him, which he allows, tugging his pant leg back down over his reattached prosthetic.  Switching on the lights, I stand to look in the mirror, rebraiding my messy hair.  He watches every move I make, the effect of which is so suddenly nerve-wracking, I have to restart my braid several times until I’m satisfied with the result.

 

“Can we...can we do that again?” he asks and I realize that he is most likely more nervous than I am, hence the compulsive staring.  After all, this is what I’ve been missing but he doesn’t even remember this between us.  I turn and kneel before him, taking his face in my hands. It feels bold, bolder than what I think myself capable but I am also unbelievably needy - in need of everything he can offer me.

 

“I haven’t slept like that in months…” I tell him.  “We can do this as much as you want.”

 

He smiles, grasping one of my hands and kissing the palm.  “You would allow that?”

 

I shake my head as the ghost of another memory passes between us, a memory I’m glad to say we can both share again.

 

“I’ll allow it.”

 

**XXXXX**

 

Later that evening, I know from the look on my mother’s face that we are going to have a talk.  So when she calls me over, I fully expect to hear an earful about how inappropriate it is to have a boy in my bed. What would I have done if it had been Prim?  I can already anticipate the conversation.  And as usual, she takes me completely by surprise.

 

“Katniss, come here, please,” my mother says pulling me to the only place in our living space that provides any kind of privacy - the bathroom.

 

I follow her the few steps to the tiny lavatory, shutting the door behind me. Though we are both fairly petite, the room still feels oppressive, the space seeming to close in on all sides.  It reminds me of my father all of a sudden, of the dank, dark shaft that must have trapped him, suffocating him in a space not unlike this. I steady the sudden nausea from the feeling of the walls collapsing on me, reminding myself that it is just a projection of my fear.

 

“Look, I’m sorry about you walking in on Peeta and me like that.  We were just sleeping…” I start, having constructed in my mind the perfect speech to deliver.

 

“I know,” she says soothingly.  She considers me for another moment in silence. Like me, she isn’t one for excessive words. What would be the point?  She pulls something out of her apron and hands it to me.

 

“Denial is not a good place to be, Katniss, especially if you and Peeta...have something. You’re playing with your life,” she says, folding the plastic tube in my hand.  “Everything is heavily controlled here. This was very hard for me to come by.  Don’t waste it.”

 

“What is it?” I ask.

 

She takes a deep breath, as if she’d rather not say. “It’s a pregnancy test. You...you remove it from the package and you...urinate on the round end,” she says, pulling the tube open and slipping the stick from its holder. “You only have to wait a minute - it works very quickly.”

 

“I don’t understand,” I say, but I do. I understand what she wants, though I’ve never seen one before.

 

“It will tell you if there are...hormones in your urine. Pregnancy hormones.”

 

“Mom…” I protest but it is weak even to my ears. I have no good reason to resist except that I don’t want to know.  A voice in my head keeps screaming, _It’s not possible. Why should I be pregnant?_

 

“You are the face of the Revolution, for goodness sake!” her mother threw her hands up in frustration, her voice getting progressively louder. “You don’t have the luxury of ignorance!” she practically shouts before lowering her voice again, perhaps remembering her sister just outside the door.  “If you won’t do it for yourself, think of Peeta. You cannot behave so irresponsibly if there is even the remotest possibility you are carrying his child.”

 

I feel the blood drain from my face, the bitter chill that spreads through my blood. I touch my stomach, still flat, though I’ve put on weight since I’ve been in District 13.  Like every other time when I was faced with a difficult or unclear decision, the mere thought of Peeta clears every uncertainty away until the truth, however uncomfortable or inconvenient, becomes clear to me.  It is more than denial. It is selfishness that keeps me from resolving this uncertainty once and for all.

 

My brain races to stack the evidence and I can no longer unknow it. The weight gain. The exhaustion. The voracious hunger and the emotional sensitivity. The spotting that, for the last two month have stood in for my menstruation.

 

I set the tube on the counter and hug my mother.  I don’t say a word, I don’t have to. She hugs me back, squeezing me gently and I feel the encouragement and comfort I’ve always hungered for flow from her to me. Finally, she nods in understanding and steps outside the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and leaving me with the rest of my life now sitting in two plastic pieces in my hand.

 

**XXXXX**

 

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, my mother sits still at the desk, waiting like the giant stones at the foot of our mountain. Prim is nowhere to be found while Buttercup sleeps peacefully in the center of the bed.  I wonder briefly when we will be moved to the upper levels so the cat can do his business in peace and not in the one of the vents that leads to who knows where in the dark bowels of the earth.  I walk past her and climb into my bunk, curling into a ball that faces the wall.  I hear her enter the small room I’ve just vacated, hear the stripping of paper from the small roll, the gasp and subsequent shuffle as she wraps the pregnancy test and puts it inside of a plastic bag.  

 

“I can’t dispense it normally - I can’t risk them finding it in the trash chutes. I’ll have to take it to medical disposal and get rid of it that way,” she mutters to herself, a nervous chatter that covers what we both now know to be true. When she’s done and washes her hands, she sits at the edge of the mattress.  

 

“When will you tell him?” she asks, carefully undoing my messy braid.

 

“I don’t know. I…” the words die on my lips.

 

“You have...options.  I don’t want to influence you but you are still in the window to..”

 

“Do what,” I counter, becoming irrationally angry now with her.  “Get rid of it?”

 

My mother looks at me with pity and it infuriates me even more. “Katniss, I’m just making sure you have all the options available to you…”

 

“And Peeta? What do I do with Peeta?  Just keep it from him?  Or do I tell him and lose him?” I feel the hysteria finally pull me under.  I’m drowning and my mind becomes a jumble of images - Prim hugging Lady,  Peacekeepers patrolling District 12, kissing Peeta under the lightening tree, his boot under the bush, the drainage tube and a field full of wildflower chains, all ready to be wrapped around me like a fancy dress.  “What do I do now?” I scream, to my mother’s horror.  “What do you expect me to do now?!”  I’ve never, ever shouted at my mother before and I’m immediately sick of myself.

 

I turn and burst out of the compartment and race down the corridor. I know where very specific things are in District 13 - the cafeteria, the Recovery Ward, the meadow and my favorite exhaust tube. I climb inside, sealing the grated door behind me so no one can see me from the outside. I don’t know anything at all in this place but one thing I do know for certain - Peeta can’t know. He’s nowhere near ready to deal with something like this. It would have to be my mother and my secret until...maybe until the world goes up in flames.  Because who am I fooling? The way things are going around here, that’s exactly the way things are going to end.

 

**XXXXX**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to thegirlfromoverthepond for helping me when I was stuck with the plot.  The first draft of this chapter was half the size and had half the heart. She helped redirect me and the results are much better than they were. Also, I want to thank akai-echo for her unfailing support and kindness towards me, as well as pre-reading and talking through the plot that remains.  There are, at most, 10 more chapters and I have a vision of where everything is going. I think some of the hard plot decisions are out of the way.
> 
> Please review and thank you for sticking to this story!


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